


the time of my life

by djelibeybi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Dirty Dancing AU, Discussion of Abortion, Don't think about it too much, F/M, Minor Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, book canon divergence, but with jousting, only at the start, that's why the starks aren't in king's landing, the events of agot never happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:55:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 36,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23951896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/djelibeybi/pseuds/djelibeybi
Summary: When Brienne arrives in King's Landing for the first time, she expects two tedious months of uncomfortable gowns, embroidering with the queen, and her father's failed attempts at matchmaking. She does not expect the Kingslayer secretly teaching her to joust, under cover of darkness, so that she can compete as him in the king's nameday tourney. And she definitely does not expect to fall in love with him.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 646
Kudos: 504





	1. in the still of the night

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is kind of a bizarre concept and I did have to do a bit of twisting to make the story fit into the book canon universe, so you may have to suspend your disbelief a bit, lmao. It's mostly finished so I should be updating once or twice a week. The chapter titles are songs from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack (usually the ones that correspond with each scene) because that's the kind of person I am. Let me know what you think!

It was Brienne’s first day in King’s Landing, and she hated it already.

King Robert, who knew her father from his childhood in the Stormlands, had invited them to court for two months, and Lord Selwyn had been eager to accept. Brienne had begged him not to take her, terrified at the prospect of being put on display for all the royal court to laugh at, but he had insisted it would be good for her; and besides, she had no good excuse to turn down a royal invitation. Septa Roelle had spent the weeks leading up to the visit frantically fitting her for gowns and coaching her on royal etiquette in an attempt to at least minimise the humiliation, but it was no good. The moment she had been presented to the king and queen, she saw the look. The raise of King Robert’s eyebrows; the slight curl of Queen Cersei’s lip. Both gone in an instant, replaced by perfect courtesy, but it was too late. She had seen it, and it was enough to make her eyes burn with tears as soon as she turned away. _Two months of this_ , she thought as she blindly followed her father from the room. She could think of no greater torture.

Now she was lying awake in her bed, waiting for midnight, when she knew her father would be fast asleep in the chambers opposite hers. Lord Selwyn always retired early and slept deeply, but she wanted to be certain. He had made her promise to act like a lady while they were at King’s Landing, and she wanted to keep that promise, but she had felt all day as though she could not breathe. Now her fingers itched to hold her sword.

As quickly and as quietly as possible, she took off her blue gown, breathing a deep sigh of relief as she pulled free the laces that had been constraining her. She rubbed at the red marks the corset had left on her skin before pulling on roughspun breeches, a tunic and a boiled-leather jerkin, simple men’s clothes she had brought with her from Tarth, and a pair of boots. Her training clothes. Her father did not know she had brought them. She had not been able to bring her mail, but the noise of it as she tried to sneak through the corridors would have given her away anyway. She needed to be inconspicuous. This would have to do.

Finally, she buckled her swordbelt, sliding her sword into the sheath, and slipped out of the door.

The moon was high and full, the night air cold and clean, and for the first time since their arrival in King’s Landing that morning, Brienne felt free. As she walked towards the training yard, thinking about the drills she was going to do, her shoulders loosened and her spirits rose.

It would be hard, she knew, trying to fit in with the ladies of the royal court for a whole moon’s turn; pretending she was one of them, when it was painfully obvious to everyone that she wasn’t. She had spent the afternoon sewing with Queen Cersei and her ladies-in-waiting, feeling like a hulking giant beside them, knowing they were smirking at each other when she wasn’t looking. Dinner had been even worse, shrinking away from everyone who tried to speak to her while her father chatted animatedly with King Robert, oblivious to her misery. And that _gown_ ; that beautiful, horrible, torturous gown, highlighting every flaw in her too-big body and pressing on her lungs until she could not breathe.

But if she could still slip out with her sword and train every night, perhaps she could get through it.

She was so distracted with anticipation for her training session that she did not hear the sounds of movement in the training yard – the clatter of steel, the footsteps - until she was already rounding the corner, and then it was too late. There was a man there, a knight of the Kingsguard, white cloak whirling as he swung his blade in a perfect, graceful arc. As she stood rooted to the spot in horror, the moon reappeared from behind a cloud and threw light onto his armour, making it shine gold. As golden as his hair.

_The Kingslayer._

To be caught by any knight of the Kingsguard would have been terrible, but to be caught by him was unthinkable. As he turned, she tried to slip away, back around the corner, but it was too late. He saw her. Their eyes locked, and she could not move. He was bathed in moonlight, and so shockingly handsome that her breath caught in her chest. His eyes were green and cat-like, widened in surprise and then narrowed in suspicion, and his face so perfectly sculpted that it would not have looked out of place on a statue of a god in a sept. _The Warrior_ , she thought numbly.

He frowned. “Are you a woman?”

That angered her enough to make her forget her fear, at least momentarily. “Of course I am,” she snapped, colouring.

He peered at her more closely. “Wait. You’re the Evenstar’s girl,” he said. “I saw you at dinner. No other girl could be that tall. What on earth are you doing out here with a sword?”

She shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. She had not seen him at dinner; he must have been guarding the door. “My father taught me to fight. I wanted to train.” As an afterthought, she added, “And my name is Brienne.”

Unexpectedly, the Kingslayer’s green eyes lit up. “You can fight? With a sword?” He laughed. “What an odd creature you are. I’ve never seen anything like you.” He twirled his own sword in a lazy circle. “Well, come on, then.”

She frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“If you want to fight, let’s fight.”

She took a step back, horrified. “No.”

“What’s the matter?” His eyes glittered in the moonlight. “Are you afraid? _Brienne?_ ”

The way he said her name sent a shiver through her. “I’m not afraid,” she lied. “I just… I promised my father I wouldn’t.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And yet here you are with your sword. What difference does it make if you train on your own or if you spar with me?” He smirked. “I assure you, you will learn far more from me.”

“I do not need to learn,” she spat. “ _Ser_. I am sorry I interrupted you. I will leave you now.”

The Kingslayer’s smile dropped, and for a second he looked almost disappointed. “Come now, wench. I did not mean to give offence. I never met a highborn maid who could fight before, that’s all. And I’ve grown tired of training alone.”

“Why _do_ you train alone? In the middle of the night?” she blurted, curious, then blushed again at her own boldness.

The Kingslayer gave a disaffected shrug and looked away. “I don’t like to be disturbed by my sworn brothers. Most of them irritate me, and, to be frank, none of them can match me.” He grinned at her, bright and sharp as a knife. “Perhaps you can.”

It was quite clear to her that he did not think for a moment that she could. _He is mocking me_ , she thought, bristling. All of Brienne’s opponents underestimated her; it was an advantage that she often made use of.

The familiar stubborn urge to prove him wrong was already rising inside her, even as she tried to tell herself it was madness. _You cannot spar with the Kingslayer. You will humiliate yourself. Everyone knows he is the best swordsman in Westeros, and in the morning he will tell everyone of your folly and make you the laughing stock of the court._

“No?” He was already half turning away. “I thought as much. Though it is a shame. It would have amused me to see you try.”

Before she had time to think, she drew her sword.

The Kingslayer turned back, surprised, then grinned. The glint in his eyes returned. “Brave girl,” he said, and drew his own sword. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. I don’t want to give your father cause to complain.”

“I won’t tell my father,” she said, and lunged.

He met her blade effortlessly, almost lazily, then immediately went on the attack. He was so quick she could barely keep track of his sword; it was everywhere at once. Left, right, up, down. No sooner had she blocked one strike than the next was upon her. Brienne was quick, too, but this was like nothing she had ever encountered before; it took all of her concentration just to keep up with him. _Let him wear himself out,_ she thought; that was her tried and tested method. _Let him use up all of his energy now, and then I can attack._ At least, she hoped she could attack. Right now, she knew, there was no chance; until he began to tire, it was all she could manage just to ward off his blows.

“Use your feet,” the Kingslayer said, his tone conversational, as though they were chatting at dinner and not locked in the most difficult duel of her life. “You need to move more. Use your whole body, not just your arms.”

“I told you,” Brienne grunted, dancing away from a particularly deadly upswing. “I do not need to learn.” Even as she said it, she questioned the truth of it, though he had not landed a blow on her yet.

The Kingslayer only laughed, slashing at her with an downcut that would have surely almost killed her had she not dodged it just in time. _I thought you would not hurt me, ser?_ At least he was not going easy on her.

In spite of herself, she began to take his advice, moving her feet, slipping away from him every time he swung. It became a chase. He pinned her against a wall, but she slid from his grasp and braved a swing of her own. Her swordpoint scraped harmlessly against his knee, but at least she had caught him. He looked as surprised as she did, then made another swing, only for her to dodge him again.

He paused to take a breath, sword held high, circling her slowly. “Not bad, wench,” he said. He looked much more alive now, eyes gleaming, hair tousled. “Much better than I expected, in fact. I think I might even be enjoying this.”

She was, too, though she knew better than to admit it. Nobody had ever challenged her so much, had ever demanded such focus, such effort. It was as if nothing existed but the two of them and their swords. She lunged at him again, and he blocked it, but her sword slipped downwards before he could stop it and cut him just above his right hip, slicing through his leather jerkin and leaving a thin red line of blood. The shock and triumph of this small victory distracted her only for a second, but a second was all it took for him to kick her hard in the knees, making her fall to the ground. Her sword fell from her hand and slid across the dusty ground, out of reach. She stared up at the starry sky, dizzy and disoriented.

The Kingslayer loomed over her. “Yield,” he said, grinning.

She stared up at him, outraged. “That wasn’t fair!”

“The first thing you need to learn,” he said, holding out his hand to help her up, “is that nobody fights fair. Not even knights of the Kingsguard.”

She ignored his hand and struggled to her feet by herself. “Well, not _you_ , anyway.”

For half a second she thought he looked affronted, but it was gone before she could be sure.

“You fight well, wench,” he said, sheathing his sword. “But you could use more training. I could help you, if you’d like.”

“You would train _me_?” she asked sceptically. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Because you intrigue me. And because I would like to have it said that I trained the first woman knight. It might eclipse that other thing I’m famous for.” He gave her a sardonic smile. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

 _I know it,_ she thought. _Kingslayer._

She remembered being ten years old, listening at her father’s knee as he told her the story of the wicked knight who slew the old mad king. " _He broke the most sacred oath in the realm,_ ” her father had told her solemnly. “ _It was the worst thing any knight could do._ ” She felt the same twist of disgust in her stomach now as she had then.

“I do not need training,” she said decisively.

The gleam faded from his eyes, turning them cold and impassive. “As you say,” he said with a shrug, and stepped away. “Thank you for the duel. Be well, Brienne of Tarth.”

He brushed past her out of the training yard, his shoulder connecting with hers for the briefest of moments. Suddenly she regretted refusing him. Loathsome as he was, she had nobody else to train with, and the fight had been _good_ , albeit terrifying.

But it was too late. He was gone.

She took a deep, steadying breath and made her way back inside to her chambers.


	2. big girls don't cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne makes a disturbing discovery.

Brienne woke late the next morning, tired and stiff. The events of the previous night flooded back to her almost immediately. They seemed so surreal she would have taken them for a dream, if not for the very real ache in her knees where the Kingslayer had kicked her. She wondered if he would tell anyone. The thought make her gut twist with anxiety. Her own mortification would be hard enough to bear, but her lord father’s…

The handmaid she’d been assigned bustled into her room, a welcome distraction. “Good morning, m’lady,” she said cheerfully.

Brienne smiled at her. “Good morning, Pia.”

Pia had been wary of Brienne at first, giving her the same strange looks that most people did upon first seeing her, but had warmed to her quickly. Brienne suspected she was unused to kind treatment from the lords and ladies she served. “How are you finding King’s Landing, m’lady?” Pia asked as she drew the curtains, letting sunlight flood the room. “Is it to your liking?”

Brienne hesitated. “It is a great honour to be invited to court,” she said, in place of a real answer.

“I love it here,” said Pia happily, setting out clothes for Brienne from her trunk. “It’s so much nicer than the place I was before. Which gown would you like, m’lady? This one is so lovely. It’s like sea foam.”

_It would look much lovelier on you,_ Brienne thought, looking with envy at Pia’s tiny frame. She was not looking forward to another day of being laced up so tightly she could not breathe. “Any of them will do.”

Pia nodded and began to lay out smallclothes. “And it’s so exciting to be around the king and queen,” she went on. “All the lords and ladies, all the handsome knights…” She giggled. “Have you met Ser Jaime?”

Brienne flushed. “Yes.”

Pia sighed. “Isn’t he beautiful? I shouldn’t say these things, I know. But I think he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. He must surely be the most beautiful man in all the Seven Kingdoms. Don’t you think?”

Brienne wasn’t sure she disagreed, but she did not want to discuss Ser Jaime. “Could you bring up some hot water, please, Pia? I’d like to bathe before I dress.” It would get rid of some of the stiffness, at least.

“Of course, m’lady,” said Pia, leaping to her feet. “Will you need help to bathe?”

“No, thank you,” said Brienne. “But I will need you to help lace me into that dress, if you don’t mind.”

Pia nodded. “I’ll bring up the water for you, and then you can ring for me when you’re ready to dress.”

“Thank you, Pia,” said Brienne, returning the girl’s smile before she left.

There was a sizeable tub in Brienne’s room, and the water Pia filled it with was piping hot. When Pia was gone again, Brienne sank into it gratefully, feeling her muscles loosen at once. Then she thought glumly of the day ahead.

She would have to sew with Queen Cersei again, no doubt. Then there would be another painful dinner. And if she saw the Kingslayer…

She blushed involuntarily at the memory of him, his sharp grin, his flashing eyes. The way she had felt when they fought, totally absorbed in it, afraid, excited, her blood singing in her veins. She had been right to refuse his offer, she knew. And yet a part of her wished that she could fight him again.

The rest of the day passed exactly as she had predicted, or almost exactly. After breakfast, she had to sit and sew with the queen and her ladies for another two interminable hours. At one point, the queen’s youngest son, six-year-old Tommen, ran into the room with a kitten and all of them were obliged to coo over him. In truth he was indeed a pretty child, with golden curls and big green eyes; though it seemed to Brienne that the praises of the ladies were just a little too exaggerated, obviously meant to please Queen Cersei as she stroked her son’s hair. _He looks like the Kingslayer,_ Brienne thought suddenly. _Those same green eyes_. But of course he would. He and Cersei were twins, after all, and very like. As young children they must have been identical.

Cersei interrupted her thoughts. “Are those flowers you are embroidering, Lady Brienne?” she asked sweetly.

Brienne glanced down at her sewing, flustered, as all of the ladies turned to look at her. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Ah,” said Cersei, sharing a knowing glance with Lady Taena beside her. “I just wondered. It’s a little hard to tell.”

Brienne’s cheeks burned as the ladies hid smiles. She felt another childish urge to cry, as she had the day before, but she bit her lip. _Words are wind,_ she told herself, and bent her head over her terrible stitching once more.

She was glad when the queen announced she wanted to go to her chambers for some rest, and the little group disbanded. Most of the ladies went off somewhere together, but they did not invite Brienne to join them, to her simultaneous hurt and relief. Instead she found herself aimlessly wandering the castle, missing Tarth and wishing the two moons would end quickly.

She ended up in some obscure tower in the west wing of the castle, climbing up a spiral staircase. The tower seemed more or less deserted, and her spirits lifted slightly as she thought of the view she would at least have from the top. Perhaps that would be the one nice thing in her day.

She had almost reached the top, however, when she heard voices coming from behind a large oak door on one of the landings. She recognised them immediately. One had taunted her the night before; the other had taunted her this morning. The Lannister twins.

“Fuck him,” Ser Jaime was saying, his voice low and intense. “He doesn’t matter. Nobody matters. You and I are the only ones who matter, the only ones in this world.”

“It’s easy for you to say that,” Cersei snapped. “You’re not the one who has to get in bed with him every night and suffer his drunken groping.”

The Kingslayer’s voice dropped to a growl. “Then come here and let me give you something to think about when you’re in bed with him tonight.”

Brienne frowned. Surely she had misheard? But then she heard kissing, a soft, wet noise. Moaning. Sighing. “Jaime,” Cersei breathed.

_No,_ thought Brienne, going cold. _No, they couldn’t possibly…_

“Sweet sister,” Jaime murmured. There was a rustle of fabric; a gasp from Cersei. “I’ve wanted you all day.”

_Yes. They are._

Feeling sick, she tiptoed back down the stairs as fast as she could possibly could. Back in the main keep, heart pounding, she half-walked, half-ran until she was back in the safety of her father’s chambers.

“Brienne,” said her father, startled, looking up from the book he was reading. “What’s wrong, child?”

“Can we please leave early, Father?” she asked, trying to keep her voice from trembling. “I mislike it here.”

Lord Selwyn tutted. He was a kind father, but endlessly practical, with no time for Brienne’s occasional fits of emotion. Through the many tragedies they’d endured during Brienne’s childhood – her mother, Galladon, Alys, Arianne – he had remained as stoic and solid as the cliffs of Tarth, drying Brienne’s tears but never shedding one himself.

“Don’t be foolish, Brienne,” he said, putting his book aside. “That would be a great affront to King Robert. Besides, it’s good for you to be here. You are far too sheltered on Tarth, with no society to interact with. This will teach you how to behave in the real world.”

_The real world._ Was that what this was? The thought made her eyes well up with sudden, foolish tears.

“Are you crying?” Selwyn asked, incredulous. “Come now, Brienne. I know you hate to sew, but this is extreme. I promise you, being here will do you good. Mayhaps we will even find a husband for you before the moon’s turn is done.”

_I want no husband from here_ , Brienne thought. _And I know none of them will want me._ But instead of telling him, she nodded jerkily. “As you say, Father,” she said, and retreated back to her own chambers.

Dinner was long and painful. Brienne stared at King Robert at the head of the table, seated next to his beautiful queen and their three golden-haired children. It was obvious to her now that they must be the Kingslayer’s. Coming from the Stormlands, Brienne knew enough of the Baratheons to know that they all had black hair and blue eyes, no matter how distantly related to the king. Even their bastards had the same look. It was unlikely that Cersei could bear Robert three children who bore not even the slightest resemblance to him.

She watched Robert as he laughed and drank. At first she had thought him somewhat pathetic, a sad drunken king, nothing like the great warrior from the stories her father had told her. Now she could not help but feel somewhat sorry for him. _He has no idea._

“Lady Brienne?” said a voice beside her, and she flinched, turning to see a grinning, chestnut-haired knight of about her own age. His face was plain, but his smile was cocky. Taking her silence as confirmation, he said, “An honour. I am Hyle Hunt. You are the heir to Evenfall, is that right?”

Brienne nodded warily.

“I have heard of its beauty,” said Hyle Hunt. He leaned in, too close for Brienne’s comfort. “Tell me, how big is it? And is your father lord of all the island, or just—”

Brienne stood up suddenly. She had eaten all she wanted, she decided. “Excuse me, ser. I need some air.”

She was glad when he did not follow her.

She found herself walking to the training yard. Darkness was falling, and the air was chilled. She wished for her sword. A good training session always cleared her head. _Not with him, though._

As though her thoughts had summoned him, the Kingslayer came strolling into the yard from the other side, again in full armour, his hand on his sword hilt. “Lady Brienne!” he said brightly, and she immediately turned to leave. “What’s the matter? Don’t you want to spar again?”

She could not even look at him. _How can he act so innocent?_ “I should not have sparred with you the first time, Kingslayer,” she bit out. “I will not make the same mistake again.”

A few quick strides and he was in front of her, the point of his sword beneath her chin. She froze. The steel was cold against her skin, touching it only lightly, but all it would take was a tiny bit of pressure to draw blood.

“Few people are brave enough to call me Kingslayer to my face,” he told her, voice low and deadly. “Be careful, wench.”

She was trembling. She could not let him know what she had heard, she knew that; but even despite her fear, she could not hide the revulsion she felt when she thought of him and his sister in the tower. “You’re vile,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow, drawing the point of the sword very lightly across her throat. Almost a caress. “That’s a very strong word to use about a man you don’t even know,” he said in a low, mocking voice. “Especially when that man was kind enough to spar with you yesterday. And to offer to train you. I never train anyone, you know. Not even my squires.”

He moved the sword away, but kept the point hovering a mere half inch from her throat. She shivered, wishing for her own sword and her training clothes. She felt weak without them, weak and useless. “You’re threatening me,” she said. “If I had my sword…”

“You don’t.”

She swallowed. How else could she defend herself, without her sword? “I could still tell my father,” she said lamely. “And he could tell the king.”

His eyes flashed, his expression turning cold and hard. “Good old Robert,” he said with clear loathing. “Yes, go and tell your father how the nasty Kingslayer frightened you.” He sheathed his sword. “And then you’ll also have to tell him how you sneaked out last night, dressed like a boy, to train with your sword, even though he made you _promise_ not to. Isn’t that right?”

It was. She cursed silently. He smirked.

“Don’t worry, wench, I would not hurt you,” he said, leaning back. “I just don’t take kindly to insults, that’s all. My name is Ser Jaime. Not Kingslayer.”

“And mine is Lady Brienne. Not wench.”

He looked her up and down, lips curling in a cruel smile. “You’re not much of a lady, though, are you?”

She shouldn’t care what he thought, she knew, but somehow the insult still cut. She took a step back.

“I don’t care what your name is,” she spat. “I don’t want to spar with you, I don’t want you to train me. I want nothing more to do with you. Just leave me alone.”

He looked surprised at the vehemence of her outburst, then faintly amused. “Very well,” he said, shrugging. “But if you want nothing more to do with me, then I recommend you stay away from this training yard after midnight. I have been training here at night for years, and I don’t intend to stop now.”

With that, he strode away, white cloak whirling behind him. Her heart sank a little as she watched him go. Where else could she go to train, if not here? She could think of nowhere else suitable in the Red Keep, and she did not know enough of King’s Landing to stray outside the castle.

_Mayhaps I should have just accepted his offer._

No. She pushed that thought out of her mind. Great swordsman though he was, she knew now that he was an even more repulsive man than she had previously believed. She could not, would not, have any further association with him.

She returned to her chambers in even lower spirits than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Still nervous about this fic so would love to hear your thoughts!!


	3. love man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne bonds with Pia and learns more about Jaime.

At breakfast the next morning, Brienne was surprised to see her father deep in conversation with Hyle Hunt. He looked up and smiled at her as she approached. “Brienne, I believe you’ve met Ser Hyle? He’s a household knight of Lord Renly’s. He is very curious about Tarth.”

_He is very curious about our money,_ Brienne thought resentfully. She forced a smile. “Yes, Father, we spoke at dinner yesterday.”

Ser Hyle grinned at her. “I think you were about to tell me all about Evenfall when you suddenly needed to take some air. I was disappointed, but your father has graciously answered all my questions instead. It sounds like a wonderful place.”

“It is,” Lord Selwyn said proudly, and launched into a detailed description of the marble mines, occasionally interrupted by questions from Hyle about how profitable they were. Brienne stared miserably down at her porridge _. He thinks he has found me a husband already_ , she thought. She could not entirely blame him. For most men, not even the lure of Evenfall and Tarth were enough to make them overlook Brienne’s appearance. Selwyn had long ago given up hope of a love match for Brienne. Now, even a man like Hyle Hunt, who was very clearly only interested in money and lands, seemed like a prize to him.

But Brienne hated the thought of a loveless marriage, and she knew that she would never know love. She resolved to resist their efforts. _And if Father forces a betrothal anyway, then I will break Ser Hyle’s collarbone as I did Ser Humphrey’s._

A servant came to invite her to sew with the queen and her ladies yet again, but Brienne could not face it. “Please give my apologies to the queen,” she told the girl. “I am feeling unwell.”

Lord Selwyn frowned at her. “What’s this, my child?”

“A headache, Father,” she said apologetically, rising. She could not quite meet his eye; she had always been a terrible liar. “I think I will go and lie down.”

Her father squinted at her suspiciously, but did not object. “Feel better, my lady,” Hyle Hunt called after her as she walked away. She gritted her teeth.

When she arrived back in her chambers, she found Pia tidying. “Back already, m’lady?” she asked brightly as she folded Brienne’s freshly washed gowns and placed them back in her trunk.

“I don’t feel well,” said Brienne. It was technically not a lie.

“Oh, no,” said Pia, big brown eyes brimming with sympathy. “Can I fetch you anything? Some soup, or water, or—” She was still lifting clothes out of the trunk. “Oh!”

She frowned, and lifted out Brienne’s boiled-leather jerkin, where she must have thrown it carelessly the night before. Brienne’s heart stuttered. _Stupid!_ she cursed herself. _Why did I leave it there?_

Pia inspected the jerkin closely, her eyes lighting up. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “My lady, do you have—forgive me for asking, but do you have a _man_?”

Brienne flushed scarlet. “No!” she said, then wondered if that would have been preferable to the truth, but it was too late. “I… Pia, can you keep a secret?”

Pia’s face turned solemn. “For you, my lady, I will do my best.”

That did not fill her with confidence, but left with little choice, Brienne told her anyway. “It’s mine,” she confessed. “I like to fight. My father taught me to use a sword when I was twelve summers old, and I have been training ever since. I promised him I would act like a lady while we were here, but the night before last I sneaked out to train anyway, and the Ki—Ser Jaime caught me.”

Pia’s expression turned from confused to dreamy at the mention of Ser Jaime. “Oh, you have nothing to fear from him,” she told Brienne confidently. “Ser Jaime is so kind. He would not tell anyone.”

Brienne stared at her. “ _Kind_?” Of all of the words she could think of to describe Jaime Lannister, _kind_ was not one of them.

Pia nodded. “He was kind to me.” She sat back and hugged her knees, suddenly looking younger than her age, a child almost. “Before I came here, I worked at Harrenhal, for Lord Roose Bolton. His son Ramsay was… cruel to me, and so were most of his men. Then one day Ser Jaime came to meet with Lord Ramsay, and one of his Lannister knights tried to hurt me, too. Ser Jaime cut his hand off.” She smiled, a small smile. “Lord Ramsay didn’t understand why. He told Ser Jaime that he… that they all did it. That I was a whore. Ser Jaime spoke to me alone. He asked me if I wanted to come to King’s Landing with him. He said I could have a job as a maid to the queen. He said nobody would hurt me there.” Her eyes shone with sudden tears, and she blinked them back quickly and smiled again. “I said yes, and here I am. And it was true. Nobody has hurt me here. But I think it’s because of him. He looks after me.”

Brienne stared at her for a moment, too stunned to speak. “Oh,” she said at last. “Oh, Pia, I – I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

It felt like such an inadequate thing to say, but Pia seemed to feel her sincerity. She smiled. “Thank you, m’lady. But it’s all right. I’m happy now. And it’s like I said, you needn’t worry about Ser Jaime. He’s a true knight.”

_A true knight._ But how? How could he have saved Pia and yet killed his own king? Cut a man’s hand off for trying to rape her, and yet violated his own sister? It made no sense. Brienne had spent her life believing that men were either good or bad. She had not yet met anyone who she could not easily place into either category.

“I fought him,” she confessed, and Pia’s eyes widened. “He knocked me down, but it was a good fight. He offered to train me, but I refused. I said I wanted nothing more to do with him. But now I can’t sneak out to the training yard any more, because he’ll be there, and I’ve offended him.”

“Why would you say that?” Pia asked, indignant. “He offered to train you! Ser Jaime has never trained anyone, the squires always complain about it. Why would you turn him down?” Then, realising she may have crossed a line, she added a reluctant, “M’lady.”

“It would be improper, Pia,” Brienne said gently. “What if anyone found out? I am not supposed to be training at all, let alone with a man, at night.”

Pia pouted. “I wish _I_ could be alone with Ser Jaime at night.” Again, she lowered her voice to a whisper, eyes sparkling, and leaned in as though they were just two normal girls sharing secrets. An experience Brienne had never had. “Lord Bolton sent me to his bed, you know, his first night at Harrenhal. I was so excited, but he turned me down. He had to keep his vows, he said.”

Brienne almost laughed. _His vows_. It surprised her that he would reject Pia, though, as young and pretty and willing as she was. Perhaps he wanted to stay faithful to his sister. She wondered how Pia would feel if she knew about _that_.

“He _is_ very handsome,” she admitted, to mollify Pia. “But I cannot let him train me. It would ruin my father if anyone found out. Do you know of anywhere else I could train instead? Somewhere nobody would find me?”

“You could try the beach,” Pia suggested. “It’s empty at night. Sometimes I go there with boys.”

“The beach!” said Brienne, relieved. How had she not thought of the beach? It would be further to go, but at least it would be free of the Kingslayer. “That would be perfect. Thank you, Pia.”

“You’re welcome, m’lady. And I’ll keep your secret, I promise.” For a moment she looked wistful. “I wish I could fight, too. It would have made things much easier at Harrenhal.”

Brienne felt an unexpected lump rise in her throat. “Tell me if anyone here ever tries to hurt you,” she said fiercely. “I know you have Ser Jaime, but I’ll protect you, too.”

Pia looked at her with something like wonder. “You are very kind, m’lady. Thank you.”

Brienne smiled at her, then remembered she was supposed to have a headache. “I think I will lie down for a while.”

“Of course, m’lady. I’ll make certain no one disturbs you,” said Pia, and slipped out of the room.

Brienne lay back and stared at the ceiling. Already she felt restless, but there was nothing she could do. It was going to be a long day.

She stayed in her room and read until dinnertime, at which point her father knocked on her door to ask how she felt. She hesitated, then thought of having to sit beside Hyle Hunt for another hour, and decided to keep up the lie. It was safer, anyway, to keep out of sight of the queen. Brienne did not know if she had offended her by not joining them to sew.

“I am no better, Father,” she said. “If it please you, I won’t go to dinner.”

Selwyn sounded disappointed; no doubt he had been hoping to play matchmaker with her and Hyle. “As you say, my child. Will I have someone send up food for you?”

“Please.”

“Very well,” said Selwyn, and she heard him walk away.

After a while, she heard another knock. Expecting Pia with her dinner, she opened it gladly; she was growing hungry. Instead she saw a grinning Jaime Lannister with a bowl of soup.

“You?” she blurted, horrified. He was somehow even more handsome in the full light of day. She was suddenly acutely aware of her messy hair and ill-fitting gown.

“I’m bringing your dinner,” he said, proffering the soup. “No need to thank me.”

“Why you?”

“I was patrolling the castle, and I saw Pia with it. I was bored, so I offered to bring it to you instead. Again, no need to thank me.”

She took it, glaring. “I asked you to leave me alone.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m bringing you soup, woman. Hardly a criminal offence.”

She looked at him closely, searching his face. Did he know something? She felt a jolt of fear. Had he somehow worked out that she knew his secret? But there was nothing in his expression but that constant mocking smile.

“You just like to provoke me,” she said at last with simultaneous relief and irritation.

“You make it very easy. You’re a dour wench, aren’t you? Not a drop of humour in you.” His expression sobered somewhat. “The truth is, I thought Pia looked ill.”

He looked serious enough to turn her annoyance to concern. “Ill?”

He shrugged. “She looked tired and pale. I did wonder if you’d been working her to the bone, but…” He eyed her disheveled appearance, making her flush. “You don’t seem the type.”

“I’m not,” said Brienne, ignoring the implied insult. “If you see her again, tell her I don’t need her this evening, and to take a rest. Please.”

“I’ve already taken that liberty, as it happens. I told her I’d find someone else to look after you instead.”

“I don’t need anyone,” said Brienne. She hesitated, then added tentatively, “You care for her.”

His expression softened. “She’s a nice girl,” he said simply, and the rare sincerity in his voice made her relax her defences ever so slightly. “She’s suffered much.”

“I know. She said… you helped her.”

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. “What, a vile man like me? Surely you don’t believe that.”

Before she could think of a response, he added, “Why aren’t you eating in the dining hall, anyway? I’m sure the whole court is missing your scowl.”

She glared. “I have a headache.”

He looked her up and down, slowly, and she felt his gaze as surely as if he had touched her. She blushed harder.

“A likely story,” he said, smirking. “Don’t worry, wench, I don’t blame you. They’re all insufferable. Apart from my little brother and my sweet sister, of course, but I don’t know if you’d get along with them.”

She flinched at the mention of his sister. Luckily, he did not seem to notice.

“You know, the best cure for a headache is some fresh air, I’ve heard.” His face was solemn, but his eyes danced. “What a shame you can’t use the training yard any more. Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind about my offer –”

“Oh, go _away_ ,” she snapped, annoyed again.

He laughed. “I wish you a quick recovery, my lady,” he said, and left her.

She closed the door behind him, feeling more confused than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! Would love to hear your thoughts as always :))
> 
> The drama starts in the next chapter, which I should be be posting v soon!


	4. stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pia is in trouble. Brienne and Jaime come up with a plan.

The next day, unable to keep up the pretence of being sick any longer, Brienne reluctantly joined the queen and her ladies after breakfast again. Cersei was in a foul humour, it seemed. She had a cup of wine beside her that a servant kept rushing to refill every time she drank from it.

“Are you all right, Your Grace?” Lady Taena eventually asked in a voice dripping with concern, reaching out to caress Cersei’s arm.

Cersei gave her a tight smile and drained the cup again. “I am fine, Lady Taena. My brother has been irritating me, that’s all.”

Lady Taena gave a light laugh. “Little brothers will do that,” she said, clearly assuming Cersei meant the Imp. Brienne had seen little of Tyrion Lannister since her arrival, but it seemed to be an open secret in the castle that he and Cersei did not get along.

The servant refilled Cersei’s cup, and she took another long drink. “Not that brother,” she said, and abruptly changed the subject.

Brienne bent over her sewing, wondering what Cersei and Jaime could have argued about.

It was not long before she found out. On her way back to her chambers, she found Jaime in a quiet alcove, crouched in front of a sobbing Pia. “Hush,” he was murmuring, his hand on her shoulder. “You’re safe. Don’t worry. It’s going to be fine.”

They both looked up, startled, when they heard Brienne approach. Pia looked relieved to see her, but the Kingslayer glared.

“What’s the matter?” Brienne asked worriedly.

The Kingslayer gave an exaggerated sigh. “You never know when to mind your own business, do you, wench?”

This seemed unfair, but before Brienne could argue Pia said waveringly, “It’s all right, m'lord. I don’t mind if Lady Brienne knows.”

“Knows what?” Brienne knelt at Pia’s other side. “Are you all right, Pia?”

“She’s pregnant,” said the Kingslayer curtly. “By Ser Osmund Kettleblack. One of my sworn brothers.”

Brienne’s stomach lurched. “Oh, Pia.”

“I didn’t know for certain until this morning,” said Pia, face crumpling again. “It’s the third morning I’ve been sick, and my moon’s blood didn’t come when it was supposed to…”

“Did he…” Brienne hesitated. “Take advantage of you?”

Pia shook her head. “I… I thought… I thought…” She looked away. “I thought he cared for me.”

She looked up at Jaime, suddenly shamefaced, as though seeking his forgiveness. “I’m sorry, ser, I know it was… his white cloak…”

“Don’t apologise,” said the Kingslayer. 

Pia looked at the floor. When she spoke again, her voice was small. “He said he loved me. I know he didn’t truly, I’m not stupid, and I didn’t love him, but I did like him. I didn’t think he would hurt me, but when I told him this morning…” Fresh tears rolled down her face. “He called me a whore. And he said… he said he’d kill me if I told anyone.”

Brienne wanted badly to hug her, but she did not know how such a gesture would be received. She rarely hugged anyone, for fear her touch would repulse them, so instead she sat awkwardly, feeling useless, heart aching. She looked up at the Kingslayer and saw his jaw clenched with barely suppressed fury.

“He should lose his cloak,” he said.

Brienne nodded. “He has broken his vows.” _But so have you,_ she could not help thinking.

“Cersei won’t hear of it,” he said. “She has a strange fondness for him, the gods only know why. She wants to cover it up, send Pia away.”

Pia lifted her head and looked up at him with huge, wet eyes. “Send me where, my lord?”

Jaime hesitated. “It matters not,” he said in a much gentler voice than Brienne had ever heard him use before. He crouched again to meet her eye. “I won’t let any harm come to you, Pia, I swear it. Tell me, do you wish to keep the babe?”

Pia’s lower lip wobbled. “I can’t,” she said. She looked as though she were about to say more, but then she just shook her head and repeated, voice breaking, “I can’t.”

“Are you sure? I could find somewhere for you both to live. I’d give you money. You would want for nothing.” He paused. “The queen might not like it, but…”

Pia considered, chewing her lip. “But I’d be alone,” she said at last, in a wavering voice.

“Yes.”

Pia shook her head. “You are very kind, ser, but… I couldn’t do it. Not on my own.” She looked very young; a lost, fearful child. “I don’t want to be alone. I want to stay here. Could you…” She swallowed. “Is there a way…”

She trailed off, but the Kingslayer understood. He nodded. “I know someone who can help you,” he said, in that same gentle voice. “They will do it soon. No one will know you were ever with child. Is that what you want?”

Pia nodded. “Please,” she whispered.

“Then I will arrange it.” Jaime straightened. “And do not worry about Ser Osmund. I will take care of him just as well.”

But Pia shook her head, frightened. “No, ser, please. Don’t say it to him. I would not have him lose his white cloak… it was my fault, it was me, I…” She broke into confused sobs once again. Brienne risked putting a tentative hand on her arm, and when Pia did not shrink away, Brienne rubbed her arm soothingly.

“Ser Osmund must face the consequences of his actions,” said Jaime. “But he will not hurt you, Pia, I swear it.”

With that, he turned and strode back down the corridor. Brienne remained at Pia’s side, still rubbing her arm as she gulped for air, trying to control her breathing. Eventually her sobs subsided.

“I told you he was kind,” was all she said, damp eyes fixed on the spot where the Kingslayer had been standing.

That night Brienne sneaked out to the beach. Her head was full of worry for Pia and confusion over the Kingslayer, and she was too restless to remain indoors. Clad in her leather jerkin and breeches, her sword at her hip, she felt clarity return to her mind after just a few deep breaths of the sea air.

There was a full moon reflecting on the inky waves, bright enough to see by. For the first time since her arrival in King’s Landing, she managed a good, long training session, going through all of her drills until she was tired. After three days of being constrained in a tight gown, she appreciated having a sword in her hand all the more. The power it gave her, the freedom. _I must never lose this_ , she realised. _Not for any man._

When she was finished, she reluctantly made her way back to the keep. Though she had intended to go straight back to the east wing, where her rooms were, her feet carried her towards the training yard before she even knew it was happening.

He was there, of course. She stood in the shadows and watched him do his own drills, oblivious to her presence. This time he was not in full armour. Instead he wore a simple loose shirt, unlaced at the neck, the fabric thin enough to show the muscles in his back and shoulders working as he moved. The moonlight glinted silver on his blade every time he raised it, his movements quick and skilled and sure.

Finally, he turned, pushing his hair back from his forehead, and saw her. “Wench,” he greeted her, a slow grin spreading across his face. “How long have you been lurking there? It’s not polite to spy, you know.”

She hoped it was too dark for him to see her blush. “What are you going to do about Pia?”

He sheathed his sword, expression turning serious. “There is a woman in Flea Bottom who can help her,” he said. “I know she can do it safely. I’ve availed of her services before, for…”

He caught himself. _For Cersei,_ Brienne thought. But for Robert’s babes, or for his?

He met her gaze, looking discomfited, then looked away. “It matters not,” he said in a harsher tone. “The only problem is, she’s not in the city at present. I spoke to her daughter today. She won’t be back for two sennights. Not until the day of the tourney.”

_The tourney for the king’s nameday_. Brienne had almost forgotten about it. It was the one thing she had looked forward to in King’s Landing.

“Two sennights is not too long,” she said. “And the tourney would be an ideal time, when everyone is distracted.”

“Yes, an ideal time,” said Jaime in a voice heavy with sarcasm. “Except I must needs compete in the tourney, wench, or had you forgotten?”

Brienne still did not see the problem. “But you don’t have to be there when the woman comes,” she said. “Do you?”

“Of course I do,” the Kingslayer snapped. “You really are thick as a castle wall, aren’t you? Who else will get her in? And I have to be there when it happens, too, to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

“I can watch over her,” Brienne offered quietly.

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his golden hair. “No, it should be me. This is my fault. I told her nobody would hurt her here, and then one of my own sworn brothers…” He trailed off, shaking his head in disgust.

“You could not have known,” said Brienne, then wondered why she was attempting to console him.

He began to pace slowly back and forth across the yard, like a caged lion. “Pia became my responsibility when I brought her here. I _should_ have known. I am surprised you don’t think the same, since you’re so quick to judge. What was the word you used the other day?” He raised his eyebrows. “ _Vile_ , wasn’t it? Which of my many crimes was that in reference to, I wonder?”

She blushed. “We are speaking of Pia,” she reminded him sharply, before she could accidentally give something away. He had a way of confusing her thoughts when he looked at her like that for too long, those green eyes searing into hers. “I care for her, too. Either accept my help, or don’t.”

He paused his pacing. “And just how do you propose to help, wench?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

“Excellent,” he said dryly, and began pacing again.

She sighed. “The tourney. Must you compete?”

He cast her an incredulous glance. “Of course I must compete. It’s for the king’s nameday.” He huffed a mirthless laugh. “Not that old Robert would care if I didn’t, he so hates it when I win, but my father and Cersei would have my head. And I believe Tyrion has a hundred gold dragons on me already.”

“And there is nobody who could… I don’t know… take your place?”

He stopped right in front of her, so close that she could see the slight sheen of sweat in the hollow between his collarbones. “Take my place?” he repeated.

She blushed again, flustered by his closeness. Surely it had not been such a foolish suggestion? “Wear your armour and pretend to be you.”

He looked intently at her. “What an interesting idea, wench,” he said. “Why don’t you do it?”

She almost choked. “ _Me?_ I did not mean—”

“Why not?” That sharp smile again. “You’re talented. Not as talented as me, obviously, but I could train you, if you’ll finally consent to it.”

“My lord, I do not even know how to joust.”

“But you can fight.”

She hesitated. “Yes, but—”

“I can teach you to joust. It will be a pain to do in the middle of the night, but we can find a way around it.”

“We only have two sennights.”

He shrugged. “I have faith in my teaching abilities.”

“You said you had never taught anyone before.”

He looked amused. “Well, I can’t imagine it’s too difficult.” He gave her a pointed look. “As long as the student is willing and obedient.”

She did not want to be obedient to the Kingslayer. “Is there _nobody_ else you can trust to do this?”

A flash of irritation crossed his perfect features. “No, wench. You and I are the only ones who know of it, and I intend to keep it that way. If we are to do this, it has to be you.”

“Would I even pass for you?” she asked with increasing desperation.

He looked her up and down as he had the night before, to the same effect. His gaze lingered on her long legs in her roughspun breeches, and she looked away, cheeks hot. “You are a little taller, to be sure, but only a little. I doubt anyone will notice,” he said, meeting her eyes again. “Just keep your helm on and it should be fine. Tomorrow night we’ll go to the armoury and see if you can fit into my golden armour.”

It was an absurd plan, and she knew it. Every sensible part of her was screaming at her not to agree. But then she thought of Pia crying in the alcove. Her terrified face. _I’ll protect you, too,_ Brienne had told her.

“Fine,” she said abruptly. “If it’s all that can be done, then I’ll do it.”

For all his persuasiveness, he seemed surprised that she had actually agreed. “Tomorrow night, then,” he said. “Meet me here again.”

She nodded.

He looked at her again, and then suddenly smiled at her. Not a mocking smile, or a cruel one, but a sincere smile. She was too caught off guard by it to smile back.

“Goodnight, my lady,” he said, and then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know there were definitely like 1500 more sensible things they could have done BUT this is a dirty dancing au after all. They had to get there somehow. Again, you need some suspension of disbelief with this fic, lol.
> 
> Thank you for reading!! The dirty jousting begins (finally) in the next chapter!!!


	5. wipeout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne has her first jousting lesson.

When she stole down to the training yard the following night, her heart was racing. What if he was not there? What if it was all a jape? And worse, what if it wasn’t? What if she truly had to learn to joust, in a sennight, from the Kingslayer, so that she could compete as him in the king’s tourney?

_Oh, Gods, I am a fool._

And yet she continued on her way to the training yard anyway.

He was there, waiting for her, dressed in the same plain attire as the night before, though she was disappointed – no, relieved – that this time he was wearing a jerkin of crimson leather, fully laced, over his thin shirt. His teeth glinted white in the moonlight when he grinned at her.

“Good to see you, wench,” he said. “Come with me to the armoury.”

He turned on his heel and strode off without looking to see if she was following. For a moment she contemplated running away, but then she took a deep breath and trailed after him.

His golden armour was displayed proudly in the middle of the armoury, capped by his famous lion’s head helm. Brienne’s stomach did a nervous roll at the sight of it.

The Kingslayer took the breastplate down carefully from the stand. “Now,” he said. “Let’s see if you fit.”

It felt very strange to have him put her armour on, like a squire. She was uncomfortably aware of the warmth of his body so close to her as he buckled the straps, his fingers occasionally brushing against the leather of her jerkin, his breath against her neck.

When she was fully armoured, he stepped back to survey her. “Not a perfect fit, but it will do.”

“I must look ridiculous.”

“Is that a slight against my armour, wench?” he asked, looking more amused than offended. It _was_ ridiculous armour, so extravagant it was almost gaudy. Only someone with the impossible beauty of Jaime Lannister could manage _not_ to look ridiculous in it.

He stepped in close again to place the lion’s-head helm on her head, and she caught the faint smell of him. Leather and expensive soap and something musky and masculine. She did not get close to enough men to distinguish their smells. She looked away, irritated at herself. It would not do to like the way he smelled.

He settled the helm on her head, and laughed. “ _Now_ you look ridiculous.”

She glared at him.

“You are a lion, wench. You are supposed to look fierce, not anxious and sullen.”

“My visor will be down, as you said. Why does it matter how I look? And I am not a lion.”

“Until the tourney is over, you will be. And I will need you to act like one, if our plan is to succeed. Now, help me arm myself,” he said, gesturing to another, less ornate suit of armour.

She frowned. “Why?”

He rolled his eyes. “We are jousting, wench. Not that I expect you to do me much damage, but I would still prefer not to take the risk.”

Brienne was more used to wearing mail than full armour, and her movements were awkward and clunky as she attempted to arm him, made worse by her own nervousness. He seemed to always be on the verge of laughing at her, and she never wanted to provoke him further. She tried to ignore his smell and the warmth of his body beneath her hands as she pressed each plate down and fastened them in place with clumsy fingers. When she finally had to drop to her knees to attach the plate to his legs, she could not prevent the blush from flooding up her neck.

 _I hate him,_ she reminded herself, blushing even hotter as her fingers accidentally brushed the back of his thigh. _I would feel like this around any handsome man. I still hate him._ She had always been weak for handsome men – Lord Renly of Storm’s End still occupied her mind after his brief visit to Tarth two summers ago. It was a horribly unfair weakness for an ugly girl to have.

Beside her head, his hand was flexing, restless. Her fingers brushed his thigh again, trailing briefly downwards before she snatched her hand away again, and then suddenly his hand was warm against her forehead, and she almost gasped out loud. It took a moment for her to realise that he was pushing her away.

“Move aside, wench,” he said in a strangely tight voice. “I’ll finish it myself, or we’ll be here all night.”

She looked up at him, expecting to see the laughter she’d hoped to avoid in his face, but there was no trace of amusement in his features. Instead, he looked tense. She stood, embarrassed, and moved away.

 _He is realising how green I am,_ she thought. _So green I can barely put on armour correctly. Far too green to ever pass for him in any tourney_. She waited for him to announce that he had changed his mind, that they needed a new plan, but he just continued putting his armour on without a word. He was more awkward than she had been, unable to bend properly in the plate he was already wearing, but he did not ask for her help again and she did not dare to offer it.

When he had finally finished, they attached their shields, took some lances and went to the stables, where he presented her with a chestnut charger. “You can use this one,” he told her. “He’s as homely as you are, but well-trained and fast.”

Brienne thought the horse was pretty, but she said nothing. She saddled him while he saddled his own horse, a snow-white destrier, and then they rode to the list fields.

It was a clear night, the moon bright enough to see by, but Brienne knew they would not always be so lucky. She wondered what they would do on a darker night.

“Jousting,” said the Kingslayer when they came to a halt in the darkened field, “is when two knights with lances ride at each other at a high speed—”

“I _know_ what jousting is,” Brienne interrupted, irritated. “Do you think I have never seen a tourney before?”

He smirked. “I just thought it might be helpful to start from the beginning. Very well, then, if you know the rules, why don’t we just begin?”

She hesitated. “Now?”

He shrugged, innocent. “I thought you knew it all?”

She glared at him. “Well… surely there is _something_ you need to tell me.”

He nodded, satisfied. “There we go. If I am to teach you, Brienne of Tarth, you must be willing to listen.”

“I _am_ ,” she muttered. “Fine. What must I know?”

“Watch your opponent,” he said. “The most important thing is learning to tell when your opponent is about to strike. Everyone has something that gives them away. I can tell you most of them. Ser Barristan Selmy, for example, always leans a little to the left just before he strikes.”

“And once I’ve seen that, what do I do?”

He gave her a dazzling smile. “Move out of the way.”

He laughed at her unimpressed look. “It takes practice, wench. Just the slightest shift of your seat will throw your opponent off. You will learn it with time.”

“We don’t _have_ time,” she reminded him. “We have two sennights.”

He threw her a lance and positioned his own. “Then we should really start practicing, shouldn’t we?”

Her mouth went dry. “Ser,” she said, almost a plea.

He seemed to take pity on her, and trotted closer on his horse to show her how to hold her lance, his gloved hand taking her arm and moving it into position. His hand slid from her elbow down to her wrist as he straightened the line of her arm. She swallowed, for a moment wishing she had no armour on so that she could feel his touch, warm through the leather of her jerkin. _I hate him,_ she reminded herself confusedly.

“Keep your arm like that,” he told her. “Do not let it move. Hold your reins in your other hand. Twist your body like this—” and he put his hands on either side of her waist, gently turning her towards him. She swallowed again.

“Whatever you do, keep your seat,” he said, and moved his hand to her thigh, pressing it down against her horse’s side. “There’s nothing like the force of the collision. You won’t be prepared for it. You will fall the first time, that’s certain. Mayhaps you’ll fall the first five times.” His hand was still on her thigh. She could barely feel it through her armour, but it was still distracting her. She forced herself to watch his face. His lips. No, not his lips. _Gods!_ They were nice lips, though. They looked soft. She watched them move; he was still talking. What was he saying? Panicked, she wrenched her gaze up to meet his.

“…to keep them from unhorsing you,” he concluded. She cursed inwardly. Why could she not focus? _You will fail Pia if you keep getting distracted like some foolish mooning maid._

“Could you repeat that, please, my lord?” she asked, hoping the darkness hid her blush.

He raised an eyebrow. “I had a feeling you weren’t listening. Already you are proving yourself a poor student, my lady Brienne.”

“I’m sorry. I am nervous.” At least it was not a lie.

“I was saying—” here he slid his hand from his thigh down to her knee, pressing it down hard against the horse as he went, “—only stubbornness will keep you in the saddle. Since I already know you to be a stubborn wench, that shouldn’t be a problem. Put all your energy into holding on to the horse. Hold on _tight_.” He applied more pressure to her knee in order to emphasise this point. _Must he touch me so much?_ “And tell yourself you are not going to fall. That’s all you can do.”

She nodded, mouth dry.

Then he took the lance from her hand.

She frowned. “What are you doing?”

He tossed it on the ground. “The first few times, you’re not going to tilt. I will strike you, and you will concentrate on staying on your horse. Understand?”

“And what if you don’t strike me?”

The Kingslayer laughed. “Oh, I will. But don’t even try to avoid it. You need to get used to being hit before you can attempt anything else.”

The thought of the Kingslayer riding at her with full speed without even a lance to defend herself made her stomach knot. _He could kill me out here if he took the notion_ , she thought.

But no. She made herself meet his eyes. They were helping Pia.

“You have to trust me, wench,” said the Kingslayer, as though he had read her mind.

“I do,” she said reluctantly.

“Then let’s begin. You go that end, I’ll go this end.” He galloped away.

Brienne rode to the other end of the lists, then turned. She took a deep breath and lowered her visor, then gripped the reins so tight her knuckles turned white. _I will not fall,_ she told herself.

“Now!” she heard him shout from across the field, and they were off.

She dug her heels into the horse’s side, spurring him faster and faster. She did not think she had ever ridden so fast. Her heart pounded in time with her horse’s hooves, the sound loud in her ears. _Watch your opponent_ , he had told her, and she did. He was a blur of gold and white, lance straight, pointing directly at her, closer and closer. She pressed her legs hard against the horse. _I am not going to fall._

Nothing could have prepared her for the impact of his lance shattering against her shield. The breathtaking force of it rocked her back, feet sliding from her stirrups, and she was falling before she even knew what was happening. She landed hard on her back, and her horse galloped away, riderless.

“Are you well?” The Kingslayer took her hand and pulled her gently to her feet. She clung to him dizzily, a blinding pain shooting through her skull and an ache in her neck from being thrown back so suddenly.

“I told you you’d fall the first time,” he said casually. “Apart from that, though, it wasn’t bad. You rode well.”

She could not speak. How could she do that and not fall? How could she do that, not fall _and_ attempt to strike him at the same time?

She raised her visor with a shaky hand. “Ser, I do not think I can learn this in two sennights.”

His mouth twisted with disapproval. “Mayhaps you’re not so stubborn as I thought, wench. Are you truly thinking of giving up after just one pass?”

“If I fail, I will make fools of us both, and Pia will be ruined.”

“You will not fail.” He spoke as if it were fact. “You are talented, wench, I can see that already. You’ve learned strength and discipline from your sword training, and you ride very well. I don’t need you to win this tourney, I’ve won enough of them. I just need you to do well enough to pass for me. Me on a bad day, perhaps, but still me. That is manageable, wench. All we need do is practice every night, for as long as we can. You can sleep during the day.”

“The nights may not always be so bright as this,” she pointed out. “What happens when it is too dark to see?”

He frowned. Clearly he had not thought of this. “Then we may have to sneak away somewhere during the day instead.”

“Where? We cannot practice the joust anywhere but a list field.”

“Not the joust, no, but there are other things we can practice. Horsemanship, balance, aim...”

She met his eyes. “And if it’s not enough? If I’m not ready by the day of the tourney?”

“You will be.”

“But what if I’m not?”

He sighed. “If you truly are not ready – if you really, truly are not ready – then I won’t make you do it, wench. I’ll feign sickness or something to get out of the tourney.”

She frowned. “But if you could just do that, then what is the point of all this?”

“Because,” said the Kingslayer with exaggerated patience, as if speaking to a child, “if I feign sickness, people will think I’m grown old and craven, my brother will lose his hundred dragons, and, most importantly, I will have to face the wrath of my sister. She so hates when I embarrass her. And anyway, don’t you want to partake in a real tourney?” He gave her a dazzling smile.

He had her, and she knew it. Part of her wanted to be angry, but he was right. She _did_ want to partake in a real tourney. To feel like a knight. The thought of it excited her almost as much as it terrified her.

“Fine,” she said abruptly. “I will try.”

“There’s a good wench.” That smile again. “Now get back on that horse. I want to do at least ten more passes before we leave this field tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: everything I learned about jousting, I learned from Wikipedia and youtube videos, so this is probably full of inaccuracies. If any of you are jousting experts, please feel free to share your knowledge!! The one thing I HAVE learned is that jousting is a lot more violent and less sexy than dancing, but I'm the idiot who decided to write a dirty dancing jousting au so I'm just going to have to work with that.
> 
> Also, I forgot to mention before that I took some artistic liberties with the members of the Kingsguard, hence why Osmund and Barristan are both in it at the same time. (The truth is I'm stupid and I forgot Osmund only joined in ASOS).
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, would love to know what you think!!


	6. hungry eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The training continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is basically the Hungry Eyes training montage, except much less sexy. Like really not sexy at all. Sorry about that :(

Brienne crawled into bed a little before dawn and fell instantly asleep. When she awoke a few hours later, Pia was already in her room, quietly filling her tub with steaming water. Hearing Brienne stir, she turned and gave her a conspiratorial smile.

“I didn’t want to wake you, m’lady,” she said. “How was it?”

Brienne tried to sit, and every one of her muscles screamed in protest. She groaned.

“Get in the bath,” said Pia bossily, then added quickly, “M’lady. The hot water will help.”

Brienne had slept in her training clothes, too tired to remove them. She stripped off, too tired and sore to care about being naked in front of Pia, and sank gratefully into the tub. “That does help,” she said, sighing in relief when the hot water eased her aching muscles. “Thank you, Pia.”

Pia came closer, frowning at Brienne’s exposed back and shoulders. “M’lady, you’re covered in bruises,” she said, concerned. “They’re _everywhere_.”

“I was thrown from my horse eight times.” Seeing Pia’s expression turn guilty, she added hastily, “But it was good. By the end, I was even starting to enjoy it.”

It was not a lie. As difficult and painful as the training had been, she had discovered that jousting gave her a definite rush. The speed of it, the danger, made her heart pound and her blood sing. On their last three passes, she had managed to keep her seat, and on the very last she had shattered her lance. The Kingslayer had seemed almost as excited as she had been, clapping and cheering. It had almost made her warm to him.

“A natural!” he had proclaimed. “You could win this tourney yet, wench.”

She was not so sure of that, but it had certainly elevated her spirits.

Pia began to lay out Brienne’s clothes. “You are so kind to do this for me, m’lady. I know I could do it without Ser Jaime, but I will feel much safer having him with me.”

“Of course. You seem happier today. I am glad.”

Pia gave her a tentative smile. “Yes. I feel better. I think it will be all right.” She chewed her lip. “As long as the queen isn’t angry about it.”

“She knows what is happening,” Brienne told her. “But not that it’s happening on the day of the tourney. She would never allow Ser Jaime not to compete. But don’t worry. She will not find out.”

“And Ser Osmund?”

Brienne hesitated. Jaime and Cersei were in disagreement about Osmund, she knew from the little Jaime had told her the night before. If Cersei had her way, it seemed that Osmund would face no repercussions.

“You need not worry about Ser Osmund,” she said in what she hoped was a reassuring tone. “I know Ser Jaime will keep him away from you.”

Pia’s eyes were round and anxious. “I just don’t want him to lose his white cloak,” she said.

“He deserves to,” said Brienne, feeling a passionate rush of hatred for this man she had never met. “But I don’t think he will, so you need not worry about that either. It will all be fine, Pia, I promise you.”

Pia seemed to relax slightly, the tension dropping from her shoulders. “Some day,” she said quietly, “I would like to have a babe. But not now. Not when I’m all alone like this. I want to find a husband first, a kind man. If I can.”

“You will,” said Brienne, and meant it. Pia smiled at her.

“I’m sure you will, too, m’lady,” she said earnestly. Brienne looked away.

“I’d best dress,” she said. “Thank you, Pia.”

The morning passed as usual: breakfast with her father and Hyle Hunt, sewing with the queen and her ladies. Both as painful as ever. Cersei, at least, seemed less irritable than the day before, but Brienne went cold when Lady Lollys made an innocent remark about Ser Osmund.

“He is so chivalrous,” she said, eyes wide and guileless. Brienne thought that Lollys might be the only lady at court with less guile than she had; the others often seemed to make veiled jokes at her expense, and she never seemed to notice. It was hard not to feel sorry for her. “Yesterday I was walking down the steps on the way to the bathhouse and he gave me his arm to help me down.”

“Indeed, Lady Lollys,” said Cersei demurely. “Sweet Ser Osmund is a beacon of chivalry. We are lucky to have him.”

Lady Taena smirked. “And so comely, too,” she said, still looking at Cersei.

The queen tutted. “Really, Lady Taena, that makes no matter,” she said in a tone of mock reproach that made the other ladies giggle. Blood running hot, Brienne looked down at her own embroidery, hoping her anger did not show on her face.

That night – another mercifully bright, cloudless night – she went again to the list fields, and she and Ser Jaime tilted again. And again. And again. He unhorsed her the first five times, and though she stayed seated the next five, she failed to land even one strike. Clearly frustrated, he declared that they would not leave until she did. It was almost dawn by the time she crawled back into bed, aching all over.

The next night he saw how gingerly she moved, trying not to aggravate any of her bruises, and was repentant enough to give her a respite from tilting; though he did insist she practice her aim by trying to hit his shield while he held it aloft and dodged away from her, an exercise he claimed he had done as a squire. It was more difficult than it seemed; he was lightning quick, yanking the shield out of her reach every time she lunged. Eventually, however, she learned to anticipate his movements. He waited until she had landed ten hits before he declared himself satisfied.

The morning after, she almost fell asleep over her embroidery. When the queen finally dismissed them, she went straight back to her chambers and slept until dinner.

Seven days passed in much the same fashion. She was making progress, but it wasn’t enough, and they were beginning to grate on each other’s nerves more than ever. The more she frustrated him, the more intolerable he became — ruder, haughtier, more demanding. The strange feelings he had evoked in her the first night were (thankfully) almost forgotten. Sometimes she still felt slightly flustered when he armed her, but she learned that all she had to do was remember some infuriating comment he had made the day before, and her irritation would distract her.

“Limp arms!” the Kingslayer shouted at her from the other side of the lists on the seventh night, the moment she raised her lance. “How many times have I told you, wench? Straighten your bloody elbow!”

“I was _going_ to!” she shouted back, infuriated. When they passed, she missed his shield again, and he shattered his lance on hers, unhorsing her with ease.

Flat on her back, she stared miserably up at the night sky, ignoring the throbbing pain in her head and back that had become familiar by now. She remembered the euphoria she had felt when she had landed that strike the first night; pure luck, she now realised. It felt like a distant memory.

The Kingslayer loomed into view, visor raised to reveal his beautiful, glowering face.

“I couldn’t possibly have made that easier for you,” he complained. “I went slower than Robert when he gets one of his attacks of gout.”

The mental image of a gout-stricken King Robert running faster than Jaime’s galloping horse was so absurd she had to suppress a snort of hysterical laughter. He looked far from amused, however.

“I made it very obvious that I was about to strike, too,” he went on. “You had ample time to shift in your seat, and you didn’t.”

“How did you make it obvious?” she demanded. All she had seen of him was a blur.

“I leaned towards you. As I _told_ you I would. Gods be good, you need to concentrate, wench,” he snapped. “Is this your idea of fun?”

She struggled to her feet, swaying a little, and raised her own visor to glare at him. “ _Fun_?” she repeated incredulously. “You think I’m having _fun_?” Suddenly all of the anger and frustration of the past sennight seemed to erupt inside her, impossible to contain any longer. Her voice rose to a ragged shout. “I’m covered in bruises from head to toe, I’ve scarcely slept in eight days, and I am doing all of this to help _you_ when all I really want to do is shove that stupid golden lance up your ungrateful…”

She stopped herself just in time, short of breath and trembling with rage. The Kingslayer stared at her for a moment, green eyes wide in genuine shock, and then, unexpectedly, he burst out laughing.

“ _What_?” she shouted, so tired and frustrated and furious with him that she wanted to hit him, or cry, or both. “ _What_ is so funny?”

“All right,” he said, his laughter subsiding, though his eyes were still bright with mirth. “All right, wench – _Brienne_. I’m sorry. I just never expected such language from you, that’s all. Such an innocent highborn maid. Who knew you had it in you?”

She glowered at him, and his expression sobered.

“You’re doing well,” he said contritely. “And I am grateful. Truce?”

She eyed him sullenly. “You need trust to have a truce.”

“I trust you,” he said simply.

“Fine,” she muttered, her anger receding slightly. “Truce.”

He nodded. “That’s enough for tonight. Go to bed and get a good night’s sleep. We won’t train tomorrow night, but if it please you, meet me in the kingswood at noon instead.”

“The kingswood? Why?”

“I have an idea,” he said. At her suspicious look, he said, “Do you trust me or not?”

“Very well,” she said reluctantly. “I’ll be there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slightly shorter and less eventful chapter, but I promise it's necessary buildup for when things heat up in the next one ;) 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


	7. hey, baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne gets a balancing lesson.

At noon the next day, feeling slightly better after a few extra hours of sleep, she found the Kingslayer at the end of the path leading into the kingswood. He wore a jacket of crimson leather unlaced over that same thin shirt from the night in the training yard, his hand resting on his sword hilt.

“You might have changed out of that gown,” he said by way of a greeting, “but I suppose it makes no matter.”

She glanced down at herself, flushing. How had it not occurred to her to change? Then she remembered that people weren’t supposed to see her in her training clothes. She was about to argue this point when he added unexpectedly, “Blue is a good colour on you, my lady. It goes well with your eyes.”

She searched his face for signs of mockery, but saw none. In fact, he looked almost as surprised as she felt, green eyes raking over her body from head to toe. She flushed again.

“My septa padded out the bodice,” she said without thinking. “To give it that shape.”

His lips quirked upwards in amused surprise, and she realised what she had said. Her cheeks burned even hotter. Before he could make a jest, she added hastily, “I didn’t bring my sword.”

“That’s all right,” he said, the ghost of the smirk still lingering on his face. He really was impossibly handsome, she thought, mortified. “I have two. But we’re not really here to spar, anyway. We’re practicing balance.”

“Balance?” she said warily. Without answering, he turned and continued down the path into the wood, leaving her no choice but to follow.

 _My septa padded out the bodice?_ she thought, mortified, before she trudged after him.

He led her so deep in the wood that she began to feel anxious, remembering tales she had heard of dangerous outlaws. As if he had heard her thoughts, he looked back at her. “This is where I earned my knighthood, you know,” he said conversationally. “For valour on the battlefield against the Kingswood Brotherhood.”

“Oh,” she said, wondering why he was telling her this.

He was smiling at the memory, looking around as though their surroundings brought it back to him. “I crossed swords with the Smiling Knight here, before Ser Arthur Dayne slew him. It was Ser Arthur who knighted me.” His smiled turned wistful. “There’s been nobody else like him, before or since.”

Brienne had never heard of the Smiling Knight, but she knew of Ser Arthur Dayne. “The Sword of the Morning? He knighted you?”

There must have been a note of surprise in her tone, because he raised an eyebrow at her, his expression returning to its usual haughty mask. “I suppose you think he made a mistake. Mayhaps he hit his head during the battle. Or did he take me for somebody else?”

“I didn’t say that,” she said defensively.

“I earned my knighthood, wench.”

“I never said otherwise. And my name is—”

He sighed theatrically. “Brienne of Tarth. Yes, I know. You’re an exceedingly tiresome wench, has anybody ever told you that?”

“In what way am _I_ —?” she began, infuriated, but he interrupted her. “We’re here.”

They came to a halt, and she glared at his back. They had come to the river, the slow-moving Wendwater, narrow and twisting. A fallen tree lay across it, the trunk thick enough to walk across.

She guessed his intention. “Are we to spar on that?”

He turned and smiled at her. “Very good, wench. Sorry, _Brienne_.”

She bit back her irritation and looked down doubtfully at her gown. The hem trailed on the ground, already dirty from the forest floor.

He looked at it too. “Can you hitch it up?”

She gathered it up and attempted to secure it above her knees, but the silk was slippery and kept falling. The Kingslayer watched, impatient. “Just take it off,” he said.

She stared at him in horror. “Take it _off_?”

“Aren’t you wearing a shift?”

She was, but the thought of sparring with him in naught but her shift was unbearable. “I cannot do that.”

“You’re better off, wen— _Brienne_. It’s likely you’ll end up falling into the river anyway. Better to have a dry gown to put on afterwards.”

When she still hesitated, he rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m not interested.”

She flushed. “I didn’t think you were,” she snapped back.

“Then what’s the matter? Take it off. We don’t have all day, you know. I have to be back at my post in two hours.”

Her cheeks burned hotter. “Fine. But…” She trailed off, unable to say it.

“But what?”

She looked away. “I cannot unlace it by myself,” she mumbled. “I need Pia.”

There was what seemed like a very long, excruciating silence, and then finally she heard him walk over to her. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground, unable to look at him, but she could tell by his voice that he was smirking. “Are you telling the truth, wench? Or do you just want an excuse for me to undress you?”

“Shut _up_.”

She hoped the spike of irritation she felt would distract her, as it usually did, but not this time. He moved behind her, and she held her breath, fighting the urge to run as he began to untie the laces on the back of her gown. This was a thousand times worse than when he armoured her. There was something unbearably intimate about it. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck, turning it to gooseflesh, his warm fingers occasionally brushing her back through the thin fabric of her shift underneath. When he had almost finished, he paused for a moment.

“If anyone could see us…” he murmured, voice low and amused.

She shivered.

He pulled the last lace free, slower than before, and let the gown fall away from her like a cocoon from a butterfly. She stepped out of it, feeling horribly exposed in her short shift. When she turned around to face Jaime, his eyes travelled the length of her body and lingered on her bare legs. _He has probably never seen a woman with legs so freakish long,_ she thought miserably.

He met her eyes again, looking startled and almost sheepish, like a child caught misbehaving. He cleared his throat and unsheathed one of the two swords on his sword belt, but before he handed it to her he suddenly paused. “If you feel uncomfortable—” he began, awkwardly.

“It was your idea,” she said irritably.

“I know, but now that you’ve done it, it feels less… chivalrous than I had imagined.”

Remembering his offended reaction when she’d asked about Arthur Dayne, she resisted the urge to make a disparaging comment about his chivalry.

“Most women wear longer shifts,” he said, as if in explanation.

“This is a normal length. But I am taller than most women.”

“Yes,” he said, eyes dropping to her legs again. “I can see that.”

She sighed. “It matters not,” she lied. “I cannot spar in my gown, anyway.” It was true. The shift would have to serve.

He dropped his sword and began unlacing his jacket. “Here,” he said brusquely, taking it off and thrusting it at her.

She took it, too surprised to argue, and slipped it on. It was still warm, and it smelled like him, the scent she’d noticed in the armoury. “Thank you,” she muttered, cheeks hot.

Without answering, he gave her the sword, unsheathed his own, and strode over to the log, stepping nimbly onto it. He walked across to the other end, graceful as a cat. She hesitated before stepping on herself. Suddenly the log seemed very narrow, and the river very deep.

“There is nothing more important than balance in the joust,” he said from the other end of the log. “That’s what you need to learn. You ride well, you aim well, but your balance needs work.”

He stepped forward, sword in hand, and went through the motions against an imaginary opponent. Part of Brienne almost hoped he would slip, just to humble him a little, but he did not so much as wobble. _He really is incredible_ , she thought irritably.

He knew it too. He crouched, one knee bent and the other stretched out behind him, and beckoned her towards him, smirking. She took a tentative step forward, holding the sword aloft, feeling absurdly like a child taking its first steps. She had almost reached him when suddenly she wobbled, and the log wobbled with her. Laughing, Jaime grabbed her and held her still. She clung to his arms until the wobbling subsided.

“You can do it, wench,” he told her. “Just put that stubbornness to good use for once, and stop doubting yourself. That’s all that’s holding you back, you know.”

Slowly, she let go of him and held her arms out to her sides until she was steady. He stepped back to give her space to walk. It took her a few moments to find her balance, but by the time she had reached him again she felt confident. He lifted his blade, and she brought hers up to meet it.

They sparred only briefly until his blade met hers with enough force to send her toppling into the water with a shriek. The water was cold and reached her neck, but luckily the current was mild. As she gasped and splashed, Jaime crouched on the log and laughed down at her, which annoyed her so much that she shook the log until he fell in, too. He laughed again when he resurfaced, dark gold hair clinging to his neck, and after a moment she could not help laughing too.

“Don’t worry, wench,” he said easily. “I wouldn’t expect you to fight a whole duel on that log. But the practice won’t hurt.”

“Shall we try again?” she asked, her mood lightening slightly.

She was grateful for his jerkin when they climbed up onto the log again, her shift clinging to her and likely transparent. She went through her sword drills on the log, wobbling a little but growing steadier as she went, while he sat on the other end and watched her. After about half an hour, she was able to do it with no tremors at all. When he said, “Very good, wench,” with true sincerity, she beamed at him.

When they had finished, they sat in a sunny patch in an attempt to dry off a little before they returned to the castle. The sun was warm where it filtered through the trees, and Brienne tilted her face towards it, eyes closed. She was tired but satisfied with her progress, and for perhaps the first time, she felt truly relaxed in his presence. “Tell me more about Ser Arthur Dayne,” she said, leaning back against the trunk of a tree.

He seemed surprised by the question, but answered it readily. “He was the best knight I ever knew. The best swordsman, too. He could have slain ten men with his left hand while he was taking a piss with his right.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “You would have liked him.”

“He sounds admirable.”

Jaime smiled. “High praise from you, wench. What does it take for you to find someone admirable?”

“Not so much,” she said, a little defensively. “Only for them to be good, and have honour.”

“I had honour once, believe it or not. Perhaps you would have admired me then.” He paused. “Or perhaps not. I was cocky, too. But I did have honour, for all the good it did me.”

“When did you lose it?” she dared to ask. “When you killed the Mad King?”

“No,” he said, and turned his head to meet her gaze, steady and unflinching. “After that.”

She waited for more, but he closed his eyes and said nothing else.

When it was time to leave, she went behind a tree to take off her wet shift and put her gown back on. Her heart sank when she realised she would have to ask him to lace it again, and this time with no shift to protect her modesty.

When she did, too embarrassed to look at him, he came up behind her wordlessly and swept her wet hair over her shoulder, fingertips brushing the back of her neck. She shivered, and knew he noticed. Cheeks burning, she stared at the ground. _I hate him,_ she reminded herself, but that was growing harder and harder to believe.

He laced the gown back up with agonising slowness. “You have a lot of freckles,” he murmured suddenly, almost to himself.

“What?”

“On your back.”

Had she ever blushed so much? She was very glad he could not see her face, though he could probably see the redness in her ears and on the back of her neck. “I’ve always hated them,” she mumbled.

“I like them,” he said absently, and his finger brushed her spine, the barest touch. She jumped.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding almost as confused as she felt. “I didn’t mean…” He cleared his throat. “Forgive me.”

“It’s all right,” she said uncertainly, and after a moment he went back to the laces, working more quickly now. When he stepped back, she took a deep breath and turned around to face him, hoping her blush had subsided.

He was frowning, brow furrowed handsomely, damp hair shining gold in the dappled afternoon sunlight. He had not put his jerkin back on, and his wet shirt clung to him. She did not think she had ever seen a man look so beautiful.

Her heart sank.

“We should go,” she said abruptly, and began to walk. After a moment, she heard him follow her. They did not speak again until they reached the edge of the kingswood, when he bade her go ahead of him so that nobody would see them together.

“Thank you,” she said awkwardly before she left him. “Ser Jaime.”

She waited for him to make a jibe, but he just nodded, brow furrowed still.

She all but ran back to the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again: I really really cannot stress enough how little I know about jousting and how it's supposed to be taught. Everything that happens in these lessons is for UST and because it happened in Dirty Dancing. 
> 
> Also, when I say jerkin I mean like a long sleeved jacket, not a sleeveless one, just fyi. I think it can mean either. (There prob is a better word for what I mean but as you can probably tell I'm no medieval expert).
> 
> And finally: "my septa padded out the bodice" is supposed to be the "I carried a watermelon" of this universe, just in case that wasn't obvious.
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


	8. some kind of wonderful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of the tourney arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking a bit longer to update, I must have rewritten this about 500 times. Once again, please forgive my many historical inaccuracies. Much love xo

The next sennight was easier. Brienne’s bruises healed and her balance improved, as did her aim. She kept her seat more and more often, and began to land hits, even breaking her lance a few times. The night before the tourney, she unhorsed Jaime for the first time. She rushed to his side, feeling an odd mix of terror and elation, and helped him to his feet, but before she could let go of him he spun her around in a circle, whooping. She laughed giddily.

“I did it,” she said breathlessly, then paused, doubt creeping in. “I did do it, didn’t I? You didn’t fall on purpose?”

He raised his helm and gave her a blinding smile. “No, you daft wench, I didn’t fall on purpose. I wouldn’t do that for anyone. Do you know how many men have unhorsed me, Brienne? I could count them on one hand.”

“I must have been lucky,” she said, trying to sober herself.

“You weren’t,” he said, “but if you need convincing, let’s do three more passes before we retire.”

She kept her seat on the first, broke her lance on the second, and unhorsed him again on the third.

“I think this could well be a success, wench,” said Jaime happily when they were back in the stables. “Stubborn and tiresome you may be, but you’re talented, I’ll give you that. You remind me of myself when I was your age.”

Brienne rolled her eyes, secretly thrilled at his praise. “Goodnight, Honour,” she said to her horse, giving him a pat on the nose before closing the stable door.

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Honour?”

“I had to call him something,” she said defensively, blushing. She had grown attached to Honour over the past two sennights.

“Of course you did,” said Jaime, with a smile she would have called fond, had she not known better. “I stopped naming my horses long ago. It hurts less when they die in battle.”

She stared at him. She had not thought him the type to mourn his horses, but it seemed she’d been wrong about many things. Suddenly, unbidden, she remembered his easy laugh when he’d resurfaced from the river, and felt an odd ache in her chest. _Don’t_ , she told herself. _You can’t_.

“Honour won’t die,” she said at last, looking away.

“Not tomorrow, anyway,” he agreed. “Unless it goes very badly wrong.”

She shuddered. “Stop.”

He smiled. “I would say you can keep him, but that would look odd. For as long as you’re here, though, you can have him whenever you wish it.”

“Thank you,” she said awkwardly, surprised by this unexpected display of generosity. She had a sudden, strange feeling that she should tell him something, but she was not sure what.

“Good luck tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll see you at dawn.”

She nodded. “I hope it goes well,” she said. “With Pia.”

“It will.”

They lingered in front of the stables and looked at each other. He looked as though he wanted to say something, too, but he didn’t.

“Goodnight, then,” she said at last.

“Goodnight, Lady Brienne.”

She slept but little that night. When she did sleep, she expected to dream of the tourney, but instead she dreamed only of Jaime laughing in the river, water dripping from his golden hair.

She woke an hour before dawn, already sick with nerves. She dressed quickly in her training clothes and hurried down to the list fields, where hundreds of knights from all over Westeros were already milling about, yawning in the pale morning sunlight. She quickly found the small crimson tent that Jaime had described to her, and slipped inside. He was there, waiting for her, his golden armour and lion’s head helm ready on a stand. There was a boy, there, too; a small, anxious-eyed boy of no more than ten.

Brienne stared from the boy to Jaime, a question in her eyes.

“This is your squire, my lady,” said Jaime with an easy smile. “Podrick Payne.”

The boy gave an awkward little bow. “M’lady,” he murmured, quiet as a mouse.

Brienne stared at Jaime again. “Ser,” she said, incredulous.

“What?” said Jaime innocently. “You need a squire, wench. He won’t breathe a word. Isn’t that right, Pod?” he said to the boy in a friendly tone, edged with just the faintest hint of a threat.

The boy nodded, turning pale.

“If you insist,” said Brienne warily. Someone would have to attend her on the field, after all, and it would be easier if that person didn’t think she was Jaime.

Jaime helped Podrick arm her. When they had finished, Jaime produced a thin scrap of white fabric and began to tie it around her wrist.

“A favour,” he said, “for my lady knight.” His warm fingers brushed the soft skin of her inner wrist as he fastened the knot, and she felt a jolt in her stomach that had nothing to do with nerves. “Just keep it hidden. I don’t want Cersei asking questions.”

She met his eyes, expecting to see that familiar mocking glint, but they were unexpectedly serious, and full of something that she could not identify. She looked away. “Thank you,” she murmured, and pulled her glove on over it.

“Good luck,” said Jaime. “You can do it, wench. Just remember everything I’ve told you.”

She nodded, throat dry. “Look after Pia.”

“I will,” he said. He held her gaze for just a moment longer, and then he was gone.

Jaime had gone through the lists in detail with her the night before. She was to face Ser Loras Tyrell first. If she won that match, Jaime theorised, they would likely put her against Ser Barristan Selmy or the Hound. She half-hoped that she would not win it.

Ser Loras was said to be exceptionally skilled, but he was young, younger even than her. He had been a squire to Lord Renly when Renly visited Tarth, and their apparent closeness had made Brienne irrationally jealous of him. She hardly remembered Renly now. “He leans back slightly just before he strikes,” Jaime had told her. “Watch him closely.”

Brienne doubted she would be quick enough to catch that, but she had nodded anyway.

“I know that,” Jaime continued, “because he beat me the last time we tilted.”

Brienne had stared at him, dismayed. “He beat _you_?”

Jaime smirked. “I know it’s hard to believe, wench, but even I suffer defeats from time to time. He unhorsed me on the second pass. Talented boy. I think old Robert would like to see him unhorse me again -- that’s why I suspect you’ll be matched with him. But don’t worry, it’s a good thing,” he said, seeing Brienne’s unhappy expression. “Since he defeated me before, nobody will think much of it if he defeats me – you – again.”

“I know, but…”

“But what? I told you, you don’t have to win.” Jaime had laughed. “Do you _want_ to win, wench? Are you feeling competitive?”

“No,” Brienne had said, but part of her knew she was lying. That old urge to prove herself, the urge she’d felt ever since she’d first picked up a sword, was hard to deny, even though she knew it was contrary to their aim. She could not prove herself while disguised as Jaime. Besides, this was about Pia, not her own personal glory.

Still, as she waited now to face Ser Loras, her stomach churned with nerves. She could not deny it – she _wanted_ to beat him.

She would have liked to watch the matches before hers, but she did not want to risk anyone trying to talk to her, so she stayed inside the tent. Podrick sat outside, warding off anyone who tried to come in. Shaky with nerves, she picked up her lance, and remembered Jaime’s voice. _Limp arms._ She straightened her elbow.

Podrick came into the tent. “M’lady,” he said. “You’re next.”

A wave of nausea rolled over her, but she fought it back. _You can do it,_ she reminded herself, and thought of Jaime again. _I can count the number of men who’ve unhorsed me on one hand._

She lowered her visor, mounted her horse and led Podrick lead her to the lists, where she was greeted by a loud cheer from the commons. They were cheering for Jaime, not for her, but the thunder of it in her ears made her blood rush nonetheless, and her nerves began to fade.

She held her lance aloft. Through her visor, she could see Loras on the other end of the field. He had a rose on his shield. Suddenly she thought of Red Ronnet Connington, and the rose he had thrown at her feet, and the fury she felt banished all remaining fear.

The horn sounded, and they were off. Her heart pounded in time with Honour’s hooves, moving faster, faster, faster, and all she could see was that rose, getting closer and closer. It filled her vision; a fixed red spot in a blur of colour. She could not take her eyes off it. How she hated roses.

He was right beside her now. He leaned back.

She raised her lance, eyes fixed on that rose.

The collision happened so fast that she barely registered it until her lance exploded in her hand, and she was at the other end of the field, and the crowd was roaring. She wheeled Honour around and saw Loras on the ground.

 _I did it,_ she thought, disbelieving. _I unhorsed him_.

Podrick ran over to her, face shining. “You did it, m’la— ser! You won!”

Dizzy, she let him lead her back to the tent, ignoring everybody who tried to speak to them on the way. Through her visor, she saw Robert scowling, and Cersei watching her closely. As the wave of joy and relief began to fade, she felt a stab of unease. _Can she tell I am not her twin?_

As Jaime had predicted, she faced Ser Barristan next. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was silver-haired and old, but still formidable. On their first pass, he shattered his lance, but did not unseat her. On their second, she broke her own lance, but did not unseat him. On their third, neither landed a hit. On their fourth, just when she was beginning to wonder if she might win again, he unhorsed her.

Still, as Pod helped her to her feet, she could not help but feel jubilant that she had lasted so long. Her blood was singing, and she felt she could do ten more passes. _Wanted_ to, almost.

“That was wonderful,” she said to Pod, beaming, when they were back in the tent. “I think I might like jousting.”

Pod gazed at her with shy admiration. “You were very good. You could have easily been Ser Jaime, m’lady. It’s such a shame you can’t be a knight yourself.”

She stared at him blankly for a moment, and then it hit her. She could not be a knight. Of course. She was only pretending. She had almost forgotten.

She took off her helm — no, Jaime’s helm — and placed it back on the stand, feeling oddly deflated. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose I won’t be doing that again.”

She was about to start removing her armour when there was movement outside the tent. She and Pod exchanged a look of alarm, and he stepped hastily outside. She heard Cersei’s voice.

“Is Ser Jaime in there?” she asked imperiously. Brienne’s heart raced.

“N-n-no, Your Grace,” said Pod in a small, frightened voice. “He went – he went…”

 _He cannot think of a lie._ Brienne felt sick. She shoved the helm back over her head, for what little good it would do her.

“Spit it out, boy,” Cersei snapped. “Are you sure he’s not in there? Need I check for myself?”

“N-no! He went – he went to speak with someone.”

“Speak with who?” Cersei demanded, but before Pod could answer, Brienne heard the fluting tones of Ser Loras’s sister, Lady Margaery.

“Your Grace!” she said. “Might we take a walk? This is a wonderful tourney, is it not? Your brother rode so well.”

“Indeed,” said Cersei, unable to fully keep the irritation from her tone. “I’ll come back later, child,” she said to Pod. “Tell me if you see him.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” said Podrick with distinct relief. Brienne heard the rustle of silk against the grass as the two ladies walked away.

Pod came back in. “They’re gone,” he said. “You’d best go now.”

Brienne nodded. “You did well,” she said gently; the boy was clearly still terrified. “Thank you, Podrick.”

He gave her a grateful smile.

Brienne disarmed herself as quickly as she could, changed into a gown she had brought, and slipped out of the tent without being noticed. Back in the castle, she headed straight for her chambers, her stomach knotting with anxiety.

She found Pia asleep in her bed, looking pale but otherwise well. The room was dark and quiet, lit only by a few flickering candles, a sharp contrast to what she had just come from. Jaime was sitting in a chair by the bed. He looked up when Brienne came in.

“How was it?” she whispered.

“Fine,” he replied quietly. “That woman does her job well. She said Pia will be back to normal in a day or two.”

Relief washed over her. “Thank the gods.”

He smiled. “And what of you, my lady knight? How did you fare?”

She could not help smiling back. “I didn’t win,” she admitted.

“Ah. So my reputation is in tatters. Just as I feared.”

“But I beat Ser Loras Tyrell,” she said, unable to keep the pride from her voice. “And lasted four passes with Barristan Selmy.”

Jaime shook his head, smiling brighter than she had ever seen him smile, then stood and pulled her into a hug, so tight it took the breath from her. Surprised, she froze for a moment, then melted into the embrace, allowing herself to bury her head in his shoulder and breathe him in for just one weak moment. She had been close to him before, but never this close, with no armour between them. He was warm and strong and solid against her.

In that moment she knew that she did not hate him, had never hated him. She closed her eyes, breathed out and gave in, just briefly, to this vast, deep, terrifying feeling she had tried so desperately to suppress.

Jaime pulled back slightly, but kept his hands on her arms. “You’re incredible,” he murmured. He was looking at her as though he had never seen her before, eyes roaming all over her face. “Incredible, ridiculous wench.”

She blushed.

He ran his hand down her arm until he reached her wrist, then held it up, lifting her sleeve to reveal the favour still tied around it. “You know,” he said, voice low and teasing, “it’s customary to give a kiss in return for a favour.”

She froze.

Had she misunderstood him? No, it was a jape, it had to be a jape. She thought she should move away, but he was moving closer and closer, his face only inches from hers, and she could feel his breath against her lips. His hand moved up from her wrist to wrap around her own hand, twining their fingers together.

His eyes met hers, and there was not a hint of a jape in them now. In fact, he looked more serious, more intense, than she had ever seen him.

“Can I kiss you, Brienne?”

She could not think. He was so close. She had to kiss him. It would have been impossible _not_ to kiss him. She leaned in just the tiniest amount until her lips met his, and then he was kissing her, softly, sweetly, one hand on her waist, the other running up her back to press her closer. Nerves and inexperience made her tentative and clumsy, but he guided her, just as he had on the list field, and after a moment she relaxed, melting into him. It felt like nothing she had ever felt before. It did not feel real – it felt like a dream, a song. Jaime Lannister, kissing her like he wanted her. Like she was someone who deserved to be kissed. 

He coaxed her mouth open and slipped his tongue inside, and then suddenly there was something else, something hot, starting low in her belly and spreading through her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, needing to be as close to him as possible, needing more of him, all of him. _Jaime._

He broke away, and she sighed at the loss. Then she absorbed the reality of what they had just done. Her eyes flew open.

Before she could bolt like a skittish foal, Jaime put his hand to her cheek, making her look at him. His eyes were soft. “I’ve wanted to do that for quite some time, wench.”

She wanted to believe him, but something was wrong. It took a moment for her dazed mind to think of it, but then she remembered.

“Your sister,” she said.

Jaime’s expression changed in a instant, turning dark and hard. He let go of her and stepped back. “How do you know about Cersei?” he asked sharply.

“I heard you one day,” she admitted in a small voice. “With her. Before all of this.”

“Did you tell anyone?” The intensity in his voice frightened her. For an instant he was once again the man who had held a sword to her throat in the training yard.

“No,” she said, shaken. “No, of course not.”

He began to pace the room, running his hand through his hair. Brienne glanced worriedly at Pia, but she was still asleep, her chest rising and falling gently beneath the blankets.

“That’s what changed your mind,” he said suddenly, with a short, mirthless laugh. “When I asked you to spar the second time, and you said I was vile. That was why, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t think you’re vile any more,” she said quietly.

He stopped pacing, his back to her, looking out the window.

“But don’t you still…” Her voice was timid. “I know you argued with her, but aren’t you still…”

Jaime sighed, and turned. “No, wench, we’re not,” he said bitterly. “She’s been fucking Osmond Kettleblack. I found out from Tyrion. That’s why she’s so keen to protect him.”

It did not surprise her as much as it should have. “Oh.”

“Oh,” he repeated, mockingly. She took a step back, hugging herself. She had felt so warm a moment ago, but now she was cold.

“You want to hurt her,” she said slowly, realising. “That’s why you kissed me.”

He looked taken aback, then affronted. “What? No.” His voice softened. “Brienne, no.”

She bit her lip. She could feel the tears coming, but she did not want to cry in front of him. Suddenly it all made perfect, horrible sense, like waking up from a sweet dream and finding herself back in her own life again. How could she have been so stupid?

“It must help that I’m ugly,” she said quietly. “Doesn’t it? She would hate that even more.”

“You’re wrong,” he said, low and fierce. “Brienne, some part of me has wanted you since we first duelled, and it’s only grown stronger every day since. That day in the kingswood…” He shook his head. “You said you trusted me. Do not accuse me of lying now.”

He stepped towards her, but she stepped back. Suddenly all she could think of was the rose on Loras’s shield, the rose Red Ronnet had thrown at her feet. _That’s all you’ll ever have from me_.

“I think you should go,” she said, not looking at him. “I’ll look after Pia. I had Podrick return your armour.”

“Brienne…”

“Please.” Her voice broke. “Go.”

There was a moment of silence. Then she heard him sigh, long and ragged, followed by the thud of the door closing behind him.

Careful not to wake Pia, she went into the adjoining room and cried as quietly as she could.


	9. cry to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and Jaime have a conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo just going to warn you all in advance that this chapter contains my first ever attempt at smut and I'm v nervous so please don't laugh at me. (I should also clarify that it's not even a full sex scene more like half one but it's probably as smutty as my writing will ever get, lmao.) Also, as always, i've rewritten this chapter so many times that i don't even know if it makes sense any more, so if you have any questions please ask away.
> 
> Enjoy xo

The next morning, Brienne woke to Pia peering down at her, horrified, from the bed. “M’lady,” she said, “did you sleep on the _floor_?”

Brienne sat up, blinking sleep from her eyes. They felt swollen, a reminder of the night before. She hoped Pia would not notice. “You needed the bed more,” she said, yawning. “I was perfectly comfortable. How are you feeling?”

“Well enough,” said Pia, frowning. “It hurts a little, but it’s not too bad. I would feel better if you hadn’t given up your bed for me. I have one of my own, you know.”

“I know, but you fell asleep here, and Ser Jaime and I didn’t want to move you.” _Jaime._ The thought of him stung. She pushed it away. “How do you feel, otherwise?”

Pia shrugged. “I’m just glad it’s over,” she said quietly. “The witch woman was kind, so that helped, and it was good to have Ser Jaime with me. I suppose I feel a little like I’ve done something wicked, but…”

“You didn’t,” said Brienne, gently but firmly. “What could you have done, alone in King’s Landing, with no family, no coin and a babe to look after? It’s not always as easy as it seems, to judge what is wicked. If I have learned anything here, it is that.”

Pia smiled. “You are wise, Lady Brienne.”

“I am not wise. But I do know some things. And you can call me Brienne.”

“Brienne,” echoed Pia. “Are we friends, then?”

Suddenly, Brienne felt absurdly shy. Had she ever truly had a friend before? Not since childhood, at least. All of her old playmates on Tarth had begun to look at her differently when they reached adolescence and saw how tall and ugly she had grown, and then suddenly they were sniggering at her behind their hands instead of playing with her like before. “I would hope so,” she said.

Pia smiled again, settling back on her pillows. “Good.”

She spent most of the day looking after Pia. It was a good distraction from Jaime, aside from Pia’s many questions about the tourney that Brienne did not much feel like answering, her triumphant memories tainted by what had happened afterwards. In the evening, Pia insisted on returning to the servants’ quarters, saying she felt fine and that the other serving girls would look after her. Brienne let her go with reluctance, left with nothing else to do but think about Jaime.

The king’s nameday celebrations were still going on, and there was a great feast that night. Once again, to her great chagrin, Brienne was seated beside Ser Hyle.

“I didn’t see you at the tourney, my lady,” he said. “Where were you?”

“I was ill again,” said Brienne. It was the same excuse she had given her father. “Did you compete?”

Hyle nodded. “I only lasted two rounds, but then so did the Kingslayer, so I won’t judge myself too harshly.” He spooned a generous helping of potatoes onto his plate. “He did well to beat the Knight of Flowers, though. That boy is too cocky. I enjoyed seeing him get knocked on his arse.”

Brienne allowed herself a tiny glimmer of pride.

Podrick Payne came running over then. “A note for you, m’lady,” he said breathlessly, pushing it into her hand. She did not have to guess who it was from. Her pulse quickened.

Hyle Hunt’s eyebrows shot up. “A note, my lady?” he asked, smirking, though there was a faint hint of alarm in his tone. “Who is sending you notes?”

“Oh, probably just one of the other ladies,” said Brienne distractedly. She unfolded the note and held it where he could not see it.

“ _Brienne,”_ it read in surprisingly clumsy handwriting, “ _We must needs speak properly. Can I come to your chambers in half an hour? I can’t think of anywhere else. Tell Pod yes or no. J.”_

She stared at the scrap of parchment, her stomach twisting. Part of her wanted to refuse; the thought of seeing him was painful. But she could not avoid him forever, she knew. Perhaps there would be no harm in hearing what he had to say. Most like he would apologise, she would forgive him, and then they could at least be cordial for the remainder of her stay. The thought did not bring her much joy – in fact it made her feel a dull, heavy sadness – but it was better than having to hide from him for another three sennights, forever wondering what he might have said to her.

She looked up at Pod. “Yes,” she said, after only a brief hesitation. “Thank you, Pod.”

He nodded shyly and ran off again. Brienne turned back to Hyle, ignoring his look of suspicion, and asked him who he had tilted against. She only pretended to listen to his answer, her head full of Jaime.

She waited the half hour, then excused herself and made her way to her chambers, heart hammering. Almost everyone was in the great hall celebrating, so apart from a few stray revellers stumbling around drunkenly or hiding in secluded corners with whores, the corridors were deserted.

When she entered her chambers, she found Jaime sitting in the chair beside her bed, wearing that thin white shirt and soft breeches, as though they were about to spar again. There was a fire blazing in the hearth, its soft light turning his hair and skin to gold. She remembered seeing him for the first time, thinking he looked like the Warrior. Out of armour, in the firelight, he looked more man than god, but he was no less beautiful for it.

Already she regretted her decision to come. Her chest ached. _What could a man like that possibly want with me?_

She closed the door behind her, then barred it. Jaime raised an eyebrow. “What are your plans for me, wench?” he asked in that low, amused voice she’d grown to hate and love in equal measure.

“Do you want to be caught in here?” she retorted, flushing.

He shrugged, watching her closely. She sat down awkwardly on the bed, feeling the impropriety of the situation in full force, even though nothing about their acquaintance had ever been proper. He moved his chair until he was facing her directly.

“I want you to know,” he said at last, “that I didn’t kiss you because of Cersei. Everything that’s happened, from our first duel to last night – none of it has had anything to do with Cersei. It might be the one thing in my life I can say that about.”

She looked away.

“I don’t blame you for doubting me,” he went on, his voice heavy. “I know how it must seem to you, Cersei and I. I don’t expect you to understand what’s between us. The truth is that I don’t understand it either. I used to think she was the other half of me. One soul in two bodies. I was a fool.”

He paused, as though waiting for her to speak. When she didn’t, he turned his gaze to the fire, and she watched the reflection of the flames dancing in his green eyes. “She has lied to me all my life,” he said. “She told me that herself. The woman I thought I loved does not exist. Did you know I’ve never lain with anybody but her?” He smiled suddenly, sharp and bitter. “And it wasn’t for want of opportunity. I turned them all down, blindly faithful, because I believed she was doing the same – apart from Robert, of course, but I never blamed her for that. But it wasn’t only Robert. If Tyrion tells it true, it was Osmund, our cousin Lancel, Taena Merryweather… the gods know who else. Moon Boy, perhaps.”

“Lady Taena?” Brienne blurted, startled out of her silence, then blushed at her own naivety.

“Aye, Lady Taena. Does it really surprise you? Every time I see her, she’s all over my sweet sister like a rash. All of her little lackeys, so desperate to do her bidding.” He snorted. “That’s what bothers me the most, you know. How obvious it is to me now. I deluded myself for so long, Brienne. No more.”

“But you still love her,” said Brienne quietly. “You will always love her.”

“Part of me, perhaps. But not the way I did. Never again.” He met her eyes. “It’s over, Brienne. You must believe me. Things have changed. _I’ve_ changed, and it’s mostly because of you. I can never again look at her the way I once did. She will always be my sister, I cannot change that, but she will never be my lover again.” He held her gaze, steady, eyes burning with conviction. “I promise you that.”

“You don’t have to promise me anything.”

“I do. I want to. Gods be good, I want to promise you everything.” He gave her a wry smile. “See what you’ve done to me? You make me want to be a true knight again, even though it’s far too late for that. If I were a less selfish man, Brienne, I would say I wasn’t worthy of you. I would say you deserve better than an old, disgraced knight, despised throughout the realm, and I would be right.”

“No,” said Brienne earnestly. For a moment she forgot what she had come in for; she felt almost hurt. Suddenly she thought she could collapse beneath the immensity of what she felt for him; the world did not seem big enough to hold it all. “You, you’re… you’re _everything_!”

She knew it sounded foolish, the words of a besotted child, and yet in that moment she had never felt anything so deeply.

He laughed and shook his head. “Everything? You are kind, Brienne, but I fear I’ve misled you. I can fight, that’s all I can do. My only talent is for killing. I’ve done but one good thing in my three-and-thirty years, and the realm hates me for it. You, though, you’re _good_. Just pure good, Brienne, and you don’t even have to try. The world has been cruel to you, and yet instead of wallowing in bitterness and self-pity as I did, you try to make it better. Do you know how many people would have done what you did for Pia?”

“You helped her, too,” she said stubbornly. “You helped her when nobody else cared about her. You were good to her and you’ve been good to me, even when I hated you. You knew how badly I wanted to be a knight, didn’t you? You knew from the beginning.”

He looked startled, almost guilty, and glanced away, and she knew she was right. She had to blink back sudden tears.

“I felt like one today, you know, at the tourney,” she told him. “For the first time in my life I felt like a knight, and it was because of you.”

His eyes softened. “I have no doubt you’d be a truer knight than most, with or without tourney victories and gilded armour. You have honour, that’s what matters, and that I could never teach you. All of this has been easy for me, Brienne. It wasn’t easy for you. It was brave.”

She scoffed. “Yes, I dressed up in your armour and pretended to be you, that was very brave.”

“It was,” he insisted. “That took courage. It was a risk, and you took it for a girl you barely knew. You’re afraid of nothing.”

That was so ridiculous it made her laugh, even through her tears. “Me? I’m afraid of everything! I’m afraid of being looked at, I’m afraid of being laughed at, I’m afraid of being left alone...” She took a deep, shuddering breath, and told herself, _Say it_. “And I came in here with the intention of turning you away, but the truth is that most of all, most of all I’m afraid of walking out of this room and never feeling the rest of my whole life the way I feel when I’m with you!”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth she wanted to claw them back, terrified, but it was too late. For a moment a laden silence hung between them, broken only by the pounding of her heart, and Jaime’s face was unreadable – but then he was on his feet in front of her and he was kissing her and all was right again.

She let him draw her to her feet, never breaking the kiss, and ran her hands up his back. This time his kiss was hot and fierce, with none of the softness of the night before, and it turned her to liquid in his arms. His hands moved over her body in her silk gown, his touch light but assured, almost greedy. Greedy for _her._ It did not make sense, and yet here they were. When he touched her like this it was impossible to doubt that he wanted her.

That gave her courage, and she slipped her hands beneath his shirt to feel his smooth, golden skin, running them over his muscled back and hard stomach, and pressed her lips to the hollow between his collarbones that had tormented her since that night in the training yard. He groaned, his hands tight on her hips, and she trailed kisses up his throat until she reached his mouth again.

He turned her around, and his hands moved to the ties at the back of her gown. Her heart skipped.

“When I laced up your gown in the kingswood,” he murmured, sweeping her hair to the side to kiss the back of her neck, “I wanted to kiss every freckle on your back.”

She shivered.

“Shall I unlace you again?”

His voice was seductive, but it was a sincere question, she knew. His hands were motionless on the laces, waiting for her response. If she said yes, there would be no going back.

Was she willing to lose her maidenhead tonight? She thought of Hyle Hunt, his sly, cocky grin, his endless questions about Evenfall. If her father’s plan succeeded, he could well be her husband soon. Could she bear to give her maidenhead to him, in a cold, loveless bed, knowing it could have been Jaime in his place?

“Your vows,” she murmured.

She felt him smile against her hair. “I broke that particular vow long ago, Brienne, and I’ve broken it countless times since. I doubt there is anything left of it to break. It’s your honour that concerns me more.”

_Honour_. Septa Roelle had given her many lectures about honour, which she seemed to believe lay in Brienne’s ability to remain a maiden rather than in acts of valour. Brienne had always listened dutifully, but it was hard to see what honour had to do with this. Helping Pia, that was honour. This was not honour; this was something else. Something she was afraid to name. Something she had yearned for all her life, more than knighthood, more than anything.

She looked at him over her shoulder. “I want you,” she said.

“That’s enough for me.”

He began to unlace her gown, just as he had in the kingswood. This gown was even tighter than the others and so she had had to forgo a shift in order to fit into it, for which she was suddenly very grateful when, as he had promised, he began to kiss every inch of newly exposed skin as he went. Everywhere his lips touched, her skin burned. By the time he pulled the last lace free, his lips at the base of her spine, her legs were as weak as a newborn foal’s. Slowly, the silk slid from her body, leaving her in just her smallclothes.

Feeling terrifyingly exposed, she could not resist the urge to cross her arms over her chest, even though she was still facing away from him. For one frantic moment she was convinced that once he saw her, he would change his mind, and she almost considered yanking the gown back up to cover herself again.

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured in her ear. His voice was surprisingly tender. “You’re just as I imagined you. No, better. May I touch you?”

She nodded, though she still could not bring herself to move her arms. Septa Roelle’s voice was back in her head again, cautioning her on the pain of her wedding night, telling her that her husband would only touch her out of duty. She was glad her back was to him; she did not think she could bear to look at his face just now.

His arms wrapped around her from behind, hands caressing the smooth, flat skin of her stomach, his lips returning to her neck. The muscles of her stomach jumped under his touch. He pulled her closer to him, and she felt herself relax, losing herself in the sensations of his touch and his kiss and his warmth and his smell, surrounding her, enveloping her. Septa Roelle’s voice began to fade, and she let her arms drop from her chest, falling loosely to her sides as she sank back against him.

“You have no idea,” Jaime murmured, in between kisses to her neck, “how badly I’ve wanted to touch you.”

He rocked against her slightly, and she felt him, hard against her. She felt a flutter of fear and excitement. A fire had started, low in her belly, burning hotter and hotter.

“So soft,” he said low in her ear as his hands moved over her stomach, her waist, her hips. “Hard muscle, yet your skin is so soft. The Maiden and the Warrior in one. That’s you, isn’t it?” He kissed her shoulder. “My Brienne.”

She had never thought herself comparable to any god, let alone two at once, but she was in no fit state to argue.

Slowly, he moved his hand up to cup her breast, and she bit her lip to keep the sigh from escaping. He squeezed it for a moment before brushing his thumb over the nipple, and this time she did make a noise, some embarrassing cross between a moan and a squeak. His other hand tightened on her hip.

“Turn around,” he said, his voice rougher now. “I need to look at you.”

Nerves seized her again, but she did as he asked. Seeing him was almost too much. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes dark. He was looking at her as though he wanted to devour her.

“That’s better,” he said. “I missed your eyes.”

She blinked. “My eyes?”

“They’re beautiful,” he said, as though it were obvious. “Astonishing.”

“I never thought so,” she said, startled. Nobody had ever complimented her eyes before.

“Well, now you know,” he said, and pulled her back in for another kiss.

She kissed him back hungrily, feeling a new confidence begin to grow, and tugged at his shirt. He pulled it over his head, only breaking the kiss for an instant, and then she could feel his skin, burning against hers. She wanted to look at him, but couldn’t bear to stop kissing him, so she contented herself with touching him instead; running her hands over his arms, his shoulders, his back. At the back of her mind she was aware of a faint desperation driving her, as though she were afraid that Jaime or the gods had made a mistake and that at any moment this bizarre privilege would be taken away from her. When he walked her back towards the bed she let herself fall back, pulling him with her, his lips never leaving hers.

He trailed his hand down her body, touching her very lightly through her smallclothes, and she gasped against his mouth. He pulled back and met her eyes again.

“Promise me you won’t regret this,” he said quietly.

She looked up at him, and for a moment his beauty stole the breath from her – golden hair tousled by her hands, green eyes still heated but softening as he looked at her. He had a bruise on his shoulder from when she had unhorsed him the night before the tourney, and she could see faded scars on his torso and chest that she longed to trace with her fingertips. Not a god, not the Kingslayer, just a man. Jaime, and he wanted her.

“I won’t,” she said, and leaned up to kiss him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry guys, but that's as far as my catholic guilt would allow me to go. let your imaginations run wild.
> 
> Thanks for reading as always and please let me know if you liked it/hated it/want me to never attempt to write another nsfw scene as long as i live (dw, i agree.)


	10. will you still love me tomorrow?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tourney is over, but Brienne and Jaime have a new secret now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off I just want to say thank you all so much for your lovely reassuring comments about my first semi-smut scene!! They were so nice and definitely helped me conquer my Catholic guilt, or at least some of it lmao. I also want to say thank you so much to the lovely @nossbean on tumblr, who v kindly offered to look over this chapter for me and give me advice. So grateful for your help and cheerleading, you're the best <3 <3

It was still dark when Brienne woke, a warm body pressed against her side. For a moment she was confused, and then it came back to her with an odd rush of both elation and fear. Jaime.

He was awake and looking at her, cat’s eyes shining in the darkness. She could not read his expression. Embarrassed under his scrutiny, she pulled the blankets up to her neck and he tutted in mock displeasure.

“I was about to leave,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

For one stupid moment she did not understand. _Leave?_ Then she remembered. Of course. He could not leave her bedchamber in daylight. So much secrecy. It was tiring.

“It’s early yet,” she said, then blushed.

He smiled. “I fear I’ve made a wanton wench of you, my sweet maid of Tarth.”

She kicked him under the blankets. “I’m not a—”

“A wench, I know.” His eyes glittered with mischief. “But nor are you a maid, any longer.”

Her blush deepened, and he put a hand to her cheek and laughed. “I knew it. Hotter than a summer’s day in Dorne.”

She wriggled away, burying her face in the pillow, and he laughed again. “Don’t be embarrassed, sweet girl. I’m very fond of your blushes. I’ve been admiring them for longer than you know.”

That made her look up, curiosity outweighing her embarrassment. “Since when?”

“Since first we met, in the training yard. You did a lot of blushing then. I found it very endearing.”

She rolled her eyes. “Do not lie, ser.”

He widened his eyes in mock offence. “I’m not lying! Did I not tell you that I’ve wanted you since that first night?”

“It didn’t seem that way.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I was the very soul of chivalry. You, on the other hand—”

“You asked me if I was a woman!”

“A fair question.” She could hear the smirk in his voice. “It was dark, you’re very tall, and you were dressed as a man. Had I seen you like _this_ , I would not have made the same mistake.” His gaze trailed down her body, a somewhat ridiculous gesture since it was almost completely covered by blankets, but knowing he knew what was beneath them made her blush all the same. “Anyway, I meant no offence by it. You were rude to me first, wench, and without cause, don’t deny it.”

She relented, reaching across to touch his hand where it lay between them, curling her fingers around his. She loved the way his hands felt, warm and strong and slightly calloused from years of swordplay, veins standing out beneath his skin. “Mayhaps I misjudged you.”

He brushed his thumb across her hand. “I am well used to being misjudged,” he said in a softer voice. “I don’t blame you, sweetling.”

She thought back to their first meeting, and felt a pang of regret for how easily she had despised him. How obediently she had believed everything she’d been told about him. The Kingslayer of her father’s stories seemed like a different person now, a fairytale villain, so far removed from this man who had spun her around on the list field and laughed when she pushed him in the river and kissed her as though she were a maiden from a song.

“Jaime,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

Perhaps it was the wrong time to ask, perhaps it would always be the wrong time, but suddenly she needed to know. The still and dark of the night, the faint dreamlike unreality of being naked in her bed with him, gave her courage she would doubtless not have had in daylight. “Why did you kill the Mad King?”

There was silence. He let go of her hand, and she cursed herself for asking. He would draw away now; she would lose him. She opened her mouth to say something, something scared and pathetic like _I’m sorry, Jaime, forget I asked, it doesn’t matter. Don’t turn away now, don’t leave me, I only just found you_.

She was relieved when he broke the silence first. “Funny,” he said, a grim kind of humour in his voice. “Nobody has ever asked before.”

“Nobody?” That seemed so absurd she could not quite believe it. “Why not?”

“It was Ned Stark who found me. The honourable Ned Stark.” He snorted. “He saw no need to ask questions. All he had to do was look at me. I was Lord Tywin’s son, I must have done it for him. Why else?”

His eyes were all she could see. They were dark now, haunted. “But you didn’t.”

“No,” he said quietly, and he told her the story.

The caches of wildfire hidden all over the city. Lord Tywin and his army at the city gates, claiming they’d come to help. Jaime telling the king not to believe his father, and the king opening the gates to them anyway. Lord Tywin sacking the city. The king asking Jaime for Tywin’s head. The king telling his pyromancer to ignite the wildfire. _Burn them all._ Jaime killing the pyromancer, then killing the king. Stabbing him in the back before cutting his throat. The judgement in Ned Stark’s eyes when he found Jaime in the throne room. _Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. Man without honour._

By the time he had finished his voice was hoarse. She could see his eyes glimmering with what might have been tears, but it was so dark she could not tell.

“Well?” he said at last, when she was silent. “Has my tale turned you speechless? Come, curse me or kiss me or call me a liar. Something.”

The words were light, but his voice was edged with something almost like desperation.

She kissed him.

He kissed her back, hard, hands tangling in her hair and gripping so tight it almost hurt, but she didn’t mind. She felt something wet against her cheek; he was crying. She kissed him and kept kissing him until she was on fire again, burning for him, and he wasn’t close enough, could never be close enough, and then he was on top of her, inside her, all around her. They moved together, his forehead against hers, his breath in her mouth. He was everywhere, everything, the only thing that existed in the world, and the only thought left in her mind was that she loved him.

When she came back to earth, he had collapsed on top of her, his face pressed against her neck. When he tried to move away, she wrapped her arms around him.

“Stay,” she murmured. “Jaime.”

They fell asleep in each other’s arms.

At breakfast, she tried her best to act normally. Jaime had stayed just a little too late, only leaving when the sky turned pink and the birds began to sing outside her window, and she could still feel his last, lingering kisses on her lips. It took all of her restraint to keep from grinning like a fool.

Her father did not seem to notice anything out of the ordinary, busy congratulating Ser Hyle on his supposed prowess in the tourney, but Hyle himself kept shooting suspicious glances at Brienne. She kept her eyes demurely on her plate.

Sewing was more difficult. Brienne found herself terrified to look at Cersei, fearing that one glance would give herself away. Cersei herself was in another foul mood, a full pitcher of wine beside her. The ladies were quiet, unwilling to provoke her. Even Lady Taena did not dare to speak.

“Lady Brienne,” Cersei said suddenly, and the jolt of fear that went through her made Brienne’s stitch go crooked.

“Yes, Your Grace?” she answered as calmly as she could, forcing herself to look into those green eyes. They were less like Jaime’s than she had thought at first. There was no warmth in them. Even back at the very beginning of their acquaintance, when he had mocked and taunted her, he had never looked at her so coldly as this.

“Your handmaid. Pia,” said Cersei, and Brienne froze with fear. “I hear she is ill.”

Brienne swallowed. _Be careful_ , she told herself. “She… she was, Your Grace, a little, but I believe she is recovered now.”

Cersei nodded. She was eyeing Brienne closely. “Do you know what ailed her?”

Jaime had told Brienne to deny all knowledge of Pia’s situation to Cersei. _She wants to keep Osmund,_ he had told her. _She doesn’t want this getting out_. “No, Your Grace.”

Cersei’s slender fingers caressed the stem of her goblet. “Hmm,” she said, then took a sip of wine. Her eyes never left Brienne’s. “Tell me, Lady Brienne, do you find her satisfactory? She doesn’t seem to be the most hardworking girl. You need only ask and I’ll have her replaced.”

“No!” Brienne blurted, then flushed scarlet when all of the ladies turned to stare at her. Cersei raised a delicate eyebrow, and Brienne did her best to compose herself. “I mean – I am very happy with Pia, Your Grace. You are – kind – to ask, but I think she works very well. I would not have anyone else.”

Cersei gave her a cold smile. “How sweet. Very well, Lady Brienne. Keep her, if that is your wish.”

She turned to Lady Taena and complimented her gown, effectively putting an end to the conversation. Brienne went back to her sewing with silent relief, though a prickle of discomfort remained.

Despite Cersei, however, the next two sennights felt like a dream. Every night, she met Jaime in the training yard. Most nights they sparred, as they had the first night they’d met, and each time was as exhilarating as the first. He continued to give her advice, but now she followed it, and she felt herself progress as rapidly as she had with the jousting. She enjoyed it so much that she even blocked his occasional efforts to divert their sparring into something more pleasurable. “Limp arms,” she chided him at one point when he tried to grab her waist instead of meeting her blade. “Use your feet,” she said as she danced away from him.

The sparring heated her blood, however, and when she felt they had trained enough, she usually gave in to him. But due to a lack of safe places to go, most nights they were unable to do much more than kiss. Once they sneaked into Brienne’s chambers again, but that was too risky to attempt more often; her father had been up uncharacteristically late and almost caught them. Another time, after a particularly intense duel, Jaime had taken her against the wall in the armoury. “I’m sorry,” he’d whispered in her ear afterwards as she panted into his neck, still mostly clothed. “A highborn lady like you should have a feather bed.”

“I liked it,” she told him, and was rewarded with a groan that vibrated through her entire body.

Another time they’d gone to the beach, and as much as she’d liked kissing him in the moonlit sea, their subsequent fuck in a secluded cove had led to her finding sand everywhere for days afterwards.

She had had to tell Pia when, while helping Brienne bathe one morning, Pia had noticed the marks Jaime had left on her neck and collarbones. Brienne had braced herself, expecting jealousy or even accusations of betrayal, but instead Pia had seemed genuinely happy for her. “He must really like you, to make him forget about his vows,” she said wistfully, running a comb through Brienne’s wet hair. “But of course he likes you. Who wouldn’t like you?”

Brienne had to bite her lip to stop the sudden advent of tears.

On the fifteenth day, Brienne was returning from sewing with the queen when some dangerous impulse made her divert her path through the training yard. As she had hoped, Jaime was there, sparring with Podrick Payne.

“I thought you didn’t train anyone,” she said, amused. “Hello, Pod.”

Pod beamed at her. “Hello, ser. My lady.”

“I’ve learned I’m very good at training people,” said Jaime with a lazy grin. “It seemed a shame to put my abilities to waste. Run along, Pod, and give me a moment with the lady.”

When Pod was gone, Jaime sauntered closer, pinching the fabric of Brienne’s gown where it lay against her hip. “The blue again,” he murmured. “I like you in this.”

He was so close. She wanted badly to kiss him, but it was daylight and they were in public, so she looked away. Jaime ran his hands lightly up her sides, then down again, resting them on her waist. “This is the one with the padded bodice,” he said, his tone mischievous.

Her cheeks flared red. “I hoped you’d forgotten that.”

“Never. There’s that blush again.” He kissed her, one quick kiss, and she looked around worriedly.

“Jaime,” she whispered.

“Don’t worry. There’s nobody…”

The sound of footsteps made him break off. Suddenly he was pressing his tourney sword into her hand and straightening the line of her arm, as if showing her how to hold it. Ser Osmund Kettleblack walked into the yard.

Brienne stiffened. She had never come face to face with Ser Osmund before; she had only seen him from a distance. The sight of him, his lank black hair and smug face, made her hot with anger. Judging by the clench of Jaime’s jaw, he felt the same.

Ser Osmund smirked at them. “Teaching the lady to fight, Ser Jaime?”

“Aye,” said Jaime coolly. “Poor Lady Brienne is bored to death at court.” He let go of her arm, and Brienne let it flop as though she had never held a sword before.

Ser Osmund nodded at her. “Methinks you need practice, my lady.” His gaze slid slowly from Jaime to Brienne and back again. “Do you the two of you… train often?” He raised his thick eyebrows meaningfully.

The implication was obvious. Brienne went cold. _He knows._

“A little,” said Jaime, his expression unreadable. “It’s good to train. We all do it. You especially, Ser Osmund.”

“That’s right,” said Osmund, his smirk widening. “I’m training one of your old students now, as a matter of fact.”

Brienne felt Jaime stiffen beside her and put a hand on his arm, fearing he would lunge at Osmund, but he did not move. Osmund smiled at them and strolled out of the yard, whistling.

“He knows,” she whispered, when Osmund was gone.

Jaime nodded, exhaling. “But he won’t say anything.”

“How do you know?”

“Because we know about _him_. Getting Pia with child was bad enough, but Cersei...”

She dropped her voice to a whisper. “But he knows about you and Cersei, too.”

“It doesn’t matter. A Lannister always pays his debts, or hadn’t you heard?” He gave her a flash of that sharp smile. “If he says anything about us, I’ll pay him back tenfold, and he knows it. Don’t worry, wench.”

He was right, she knew, but the knot in her stomach did not ease. “Mayhaps we shouldn’t meet tonight,” she murmured.

For a moment Jaime looked as if he might disagree, but then he met her eyes and his face softened. “You do look tired, wench. Between this and the jousting practice, I doubt you’ve had a proper night’s sleep since you met me. Very well, then, take the night off.”

“I’ll miss you,” she admitted.

He kissed her hand, a chaste, courtly kiss, but his lips lingered there just a little too long for it to be entirely proper. “Dream of me,” he said, eyes glinting wickedly, and then he was striding away.

 _I always do_ , she thought.


	11. you don't own me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hyle makes his move, and Jaime and Brienne are forced to think about the future.

At dinner the next night, Hyle Hunt talked incessantly. He was describing various feats of valour he had apparently accomplished in the service of Lord Renly, and since Brienne wanted to dispel any suspicions he might have, she tried to listen attentively. Truly, though, her mind was on Jaime. She had indeed missed him the night before, but she’d dreamed of him as she’d promised – a long, lovely, vivid dream. Her thoughts kept straying back to it now: his mouth on her neck, his hands on her skin, his—

“…and then I stuck my sword right into the bear’s throat, and that was that,” Hyle concluded modestly.

Brienne forced herself back to reality. “That was very, er, brave.”

Hyle smiled and took a gulp of wine. “Just an amusing little tale.”

They had just finished the pudding, and servants were beginning to clear the dishes away. Hyle stood, extending his hand to Brienne. “Shall we take a walk, my lady?”

Her heart sank. There was nothing she wanted to do less, but she had no good reason to refuse, and she could see her father looking hopefully at them from further down the table. “Very well,” she said, hoping she did not sound ungracious.

Grinning, Hyle escorted her out of the dining hall and out into the darkening gardens. “It’s a beautiful evening,” he remarked, and it was. The first stars were just beginning to appear in the twilight sky, the evening star bright to the west, and the moon was a sharp crescent. It was hard not to think of Tarth, though she was surprised to find that the thought did not provoke the familiar pang of homesickness it usually did.

Clearly, Hyle was also thinking of Tarth. He came to a stop and turned to face her. “My lady,” he said, “I am sure you have guessed my intentions by now.”

Her heart sank. She had known this conversation was coming, but that did not make her feel any less reluctant to have it. “You wish to marry me,” she said flatly.

Hyle grinned. “Yes, indeed. I won’t lie, Lady Brienne, I don’t find you attractive, and you don’t seem to like me either, but I think marriage would benefit both of us. Think about it. A castle and lands for me, and a husband and babes for you. I’ve sired at least one bastard that I know of, so I know I’m capable. I would treat you kindly and let you do what you wish, and I see no reason why we wouldn’t both be happy.” He spread his hands. “What say you?”

Brienne sighed. She could not deny it was a practical proposal, one she might even have considered before Jaime and the fire he’d awoken in her – but now it seemed like the most bleakly depressing future she could imagine.

“I thank you for your… honesty, ser,” she said at last. She did, in an odd way, appreciate it; it would have been worse if he’d pretended to like her. “But I have no wish to marry at present.”

Hyle raised his eyebrows. “No wish to marry? You are a highborn maid, and your father’s only heir. I know _he_ has a great wish for you to marry.”

“He would not force me,” she said, though she was not certain of that. After her three failed betrothals, Lord Selwyn was growing desperate and she knew it.

“Come now, my lady.” Hyle stepped closer. “You may feel this way now, but you will regret it when you are old and lonely, with no children to love you and no husband to warm your bed. You are too young to know what you are throwing away. Have you ever even been kissed?” She flushed, and he grinned wider. “Leave your door unbarred tonight, and I will steal in and show you what I have to offer. You’re tall and ugly, true, but all maids look the same in the—”

Brienne heard footsteps behind her, and Hyle trailed off, eyes widening. She turned to see Jaime, tall and imposing in his Kingsguard armour, his hand resting on his sword hilt.

“Is that any way to speak to a highborn lady, Ser Myles?” he asked, voice smooth and cold.

Hyle eyed Jaime’s sword warily. “I was asking for her hand in marriage, my lord. And my name is Hyle.”

“My deepest apologies,” said Jaime sardonically. “It sounded to me like you were asking for a slap in the face.”

Hyle forced an ingratiating smile, though it was clear he was embarrassed. “You misunderstand, ser,” he said cheerfully. “Lady Brienne doesn’t mind when I speak plainly. Besides” – he gave an apologetic grimace, as though it pained him to say it – “it’s the best offer she is likely to get.”

Jaime stepped closer. “Is that so?”

Confused, Hyle looked from Jaime to Brienne and back again, clearly wondering why the Kingslayer was so intent on defending her. Perhaps he thought it was a joke. “I mean, look at her.”

Jaime lunged forward, shaking off Brienne’s restraining hand on his arm, and hit Hyle so hard that he fell to the ground. Hyle stared up at them in dumb shock, clutching his nose. It was bloody.

“You are speaking of a highborn lady, ser,” Jaime told him through gritted teeth. “Have some respect.”

“I beant no offence,” said Hyle in a muffled voice. He looked more surprised than pained. “Seben hells.”

Jaime began to stride away, fury in every line of his body. For a moment Brienne hesitated, unsure of whether to follow him or stay with Hyle, but then Jaime said tersely, “Come, my lady, let me escort you back to the castle.”

She followed him, hurrying to keep up with his rapid strides. They walked in silence until they reached the empty armoury. Then Jaime pulled her inside, pressed her against the wall and kissed her, hard and bruising.

For a moment she sank into him, kissing him back. Then she pulled back slightly, combing her fingers through his hair. “Jaime,” she said softly, hoping to calm him. “Jaime.”

He sighed against her neck, breath hot on her skin.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she murmured, still stroking his hair.

“He deserved it.”

“It will look suspicious.”

He sighed again, drawing back slightly to look her in the eyes. “The Others take his suspicions. I’ve had enough of secrecy, Brienne. I’ve had a lifetime of it, with Cersei. I don’t want to do it again with you.”

The words made her heart lift, but she tried not to show it. She brought her hand down to caress his cheek. “You are a knight of the Kingsguard. What else can we do?”

“I could leave.”

She stared at him, her hand stilling. “What?”

He shrugged. “Why not? My father would be delighted. Ser Barristan would probably dance a jig. The only one who wouldn’t like it is Cersei, but I don’t give a damn about that.”

The thought of Jaime leaving the Kingsguard for her sake was terrifying. For the first time, the full reality of what they were doing – the true recklessness of it, their potential ruin – hit her at full force, and her heart began to pound. “You can’t just _leave_ ,” she said. “A Kingsguard serves for life.”

“For a son of Tywin Lannister, I’m sure accommodations could be made,” he said with a half-smile. He rested his hand on her waist, drawing her closer. “Do you want me to?”

She blinked at him. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“Yes,” he said, and the sudden fierceness of his tone took her by surprise. “It does.”

She shook her head, trying to make sense of it. “You hardly even know me.”

“I know you better than I know anyone.”

She could not think clearly when he looked at her like that, so she looked away. With her eyes fixed on the stone wall behind him, cold reality began to seep back into her mind. Jaime, her husband. She could not even imagine it. She tried to picture him draping a Lannister cloak around her in the Great Sept of Baelor while all the great lords and ladies of Westeros looked on, Cersei and Tywin fuming, the others hiding sniggers behind scented handkerchiefs. His former brothers judging him, Ser Barristan sneering. The Kingslayer and his ugly bride. It was too absurd an image.

_He is speaking of impossible things_ , said a voice that sounded very much like Septa Roelle. _This is a dream. If you think about it too deeply, it will fall apart. That is the way of dreams._

“Let us not think of the future,” she said, brushing her hands down his arms. “I am happy just to be here with you, like this, for as long as I can. It’s more than I ever dreamed I would have.”

Jaime caught her gaze and held it. “When do you leave?” he asked quietly.

“Two more sennights.”

“And after that, we will never see each other again. Does that please you?”

She swallowed. “Of course not, but…”

“But what?” His eyes burned into her.

“But we _can’t_ ,” she said helplessly.

“Is it your father?”

She shook her head. How could he not understand? “It’s everyone, Jaime. Everything.”

"I never thought you so quick to give up. Or so concerned with what other people think." His voice was cold. "You're a good fighter, Brienne. Why aren't you fighting for this?"

"It's not that simple." 

The words hung in the silence between them like a drawn arrow, waiting to be shot. Jaime stepped back, away from her touch, her hands sliding from his arms. It was dark in the armoury, but she could still see his green eyes, never leaving hers. They were narrowed, cold.

“You sound just like Cersei,” he said flatly.

He turned and walked away, his receding footsteps very loud in the dead silence he left behind.

She stared numbly at the empty doorway for a long time before she finally left.

On her way back to her chambers, she stopped dead at the sight of her father and Ser Hyle, deep in conversation in front of her father’s door. They looked up when they saw her. Hyle looked shifty, Lord Selwyn grave. Her heart beat faster.

“I must needs speak with you, my child,” Lord Selwyn said. “Ser Hyle here has told me an interesting story.”

Brienne did her best to sound calm. “As I said to him, my lord, I was honoured by his proposal. But I do not wish to marry him, and I will not change my mind.”

“We’ll get to that,” said Lord Selwyn. “Why did the Kingslayer leap to your defence?”

Brienne looked at Hyle. He had a splint on his nose, the white bandage spattered with blood. “Because he heard Ser Hyle speak dishonourably of me.”

Her father looked at Hyle. “You did not mention that, ser.”

Hyle’s ears reddened. “I, ah, meant no offence, my lord. I merely pointed out that Lady Brienne has not received any other offers of marriage.”

“Because I’m ugly,” said Brienne.

“I did not say that,” said Hyle, looking nervous.

“You implied it, ser. You also offered to steal into my bedchamber should I leave the door unbarred.”

Lord Selwyn frowned at Hyle. “You offered to _what_?”

Hyle cleared his throat. “An ill-judged jest. Forgive me. I only thought it odd that the Kingslayer would defend your daughter so passionately, my lord. I thought that perhaps he might have… dishonourable intentions towards her, and that I should let you know.” He smiled hopefully beneath his splint.

“No more dishonourable than yours, it seems,” said her father irritably. “Off with you, ser. I would speak to my daughter alone.”

Disappointed, Hyle slunk away.

Brienne only had a moment to feel relieved before her father’s serious gaze was on her. His eyes were a deep, clear blue, as blue as her own. “What is this, Brienne? Why did the Kingslayer hit Ser Hyle?”

“His name is Jaime,” she blurted. He raised an eyebrow.

“I know you are a good girl, Brienne, and honourable,” he said gravely. “But dishonourable men often lead honourable girls astray, and he is the most dishonourable of them all.”

She bit her tongue, longing to defend Jaime, but knowing she could not. Admitting it now would separate them forever, and probably cause Jaime to lose his cloak and what remained of his reputation. Still, when she said, “It is nothing. I don’t even know him, Father,” the words had the bitter taste of shame.

Lord Selwyn nodded, apparently satisfied. “As I thought. Ser Hyle exaggerated the tale to spite you, I’m sure. It’s a shame – I thought better of him.” He opened the door to let her into his chambers. Just before she passed through, relieved that she seemed to have gotten rid of Hyle at least, he added, “But mayhaps you might find it in your heart to forgive him.”

She hid a sigh.

When she went to the training yard later that night, Jaime was not there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(
> 
> thanks so much for reading and please let me know your thoughts/questions/complaints!! also can't remember if i said it here before but i'm @djeli-beybi on tumblr if you want to shout at me there! xo


	12. she's like the wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne reconcile, but there are more obstacles in their way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, this chapter is kind of a monster. I was originally going to split it in two but it didn't really work so it ended up super long (by my standards anyway), hope ye don't mind!! Once again I want to thank the amazing nossbean on tumblr for beta reading and giving me such brilliant, thoughtful suggestions and advice, it was a massive help and you are an angel <33

Brienne did not see Jaime the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that. By the fourth day she accepted that he had given her up. Something heavy settled on her heart and stayed there. The world felt duller, greyer, as she dragged herself from place to place without enthusiasm. Breakfast, sewing, dinner, bed. At night she cried herself to sleep. _You foolish girl_ , said Septa Roelle’s voice. How could she have willingly begun something so obviously doomed to fail? She was always so careful, so guarded; this was so unlike her. But something about Jaime had made her feel so reckless.

_Love_ , said another voice in her mind. _That was love_.

She pushed the thought aside, burying her face in her tear-soaked pillow. Love was not for girls like her. She had always known that, but he had made her forget. For that, she almost hated him.

Almost.

But it was not Jaime’s fault, she knew that. She did not doubt that his feelings for her had been true enough, though she had never quite dared to put a name on them. Some delusion had even made him believe that they could be together properly, but it wasn’t true. He could not give up the Kingsguard for her, the so-called Beauty of Tarth. His father and sister would be furious, the king offended, and he would become the laughing stock of Westeros, dragged down alongside her. Besides, he would doubtless change his mind after a few months of marriage, when the delusion wore off and he realised that she was not whatever he had imagined her to be. He must have realised that by now.

Yes, she decided one night as she lay in bed, by now he must have seen reason. There was no need, then, for them to continue like this, avoiding each other. They could not be lovers again, but they could at least be friends. Acquaintances, even. Anything was better than this horrible silent tension.

Tears drying on her cheeks, she stared at the lone sliver of moonlight that slipped through the shutters and crept across her chamber floor. She wanted to see him, talk to him, wanted it badly. A sudden courage seized her. She would do it now.

Abruptly, she threw the blankets from her and rose from the bed, changing hurriedly into her breeches, boiled leather jerkin and boots. Her heart beat in her throat as she crept out of the castle and towards the training yard.

He was there, sword in hand, going through his drills. She felt simultaneously relieved and afraid. He turned and saw her, the moonlight catching him, turning him silver and gold the way it had the first night she met him, and for a moment her heart stopped. All of her earlier resolve flooded out of her like the tide rushing away from the sand, and suddenly all she wanted was to be wrapped in his arms again.

He lowered his sword and cocked his head to the side. “Wench,” he said, aloof and wary.

She stepped closer, aching. “Jaime.”

“Did you change your mind?”

She hesitated. “Did you?”

“About you?” He fixed his eyes to hers, steady and unblinking. “Never.”

A wave of relief washed over her. “Jaime, I’m so sorry,” she said in a rush. It was not what she had intended to say, but it came spilling out regardless. “I didn’t mean it, not truly. I said it wrong. I never meant to hurt you, and I don’t want you to hate me, it’s only that—”

He sighed and dropped his sword. “Come here,” he said, his voice gentle.

She approached him, warily at first. Then he opened his arms, and a lump rose in her throat. She ran to him like a child, burying her face in his shoulder, wanting to cry with relief when he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight to him. He was wearing another thin shirt, and she could feel his heart beating through it. 

_Jaime._ How she had missed him.

“It’s all right, wench,” he said, stroking her hair. “I know what you meant. Tyrion always tells me I am too reckless. Now I’ve had some time to think on it, I see you were right to be cautious.”

She lifted her head to look up at him. “So you won’t leave the Kingsguard?”

It took him just a second too long to respond. “Well...”

She felt herself begin to panic once again. As good as it felt to be back in his arms, the sheer enormity of him possibly giving up his cloak felt no less terrifying than before. “ _Please_ don’t, Jaime. I know what you said, but it’s not worth it, not for me.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, the sound of footsteps made them both freeze. They turned to see Lord Selwyn staring at them, the light of the moon throwing his shocked face into sharp relief.

Brienne’s heart dropped. Jaime’s arms were still around her waist, hers around his neck. She stepped back, out of his embrace. “Father, I—”

“So it’s true.” Lord Selwyn stared from Jaime to Brienne and back again. “I heard you sneak out of your chambers, and I didn’t want to believe it, but I followed you just to make sure. How foolish I feel now.” He looked at Brienne. “You lied to me.”

A lump rose in her throat, but before she could answer, Jaime stepped in front of her. “My lord, this is no fault of Lady Brienne’s. The blame lies with me.”

Selwyn glared at him. “Oh, I have plenty of blame for you, Kingslayer, do not worry. Are your vows a joke to you, ser? How many young maids have you seduced, when you’re not busy murdering kings?”

“He did not seduce me,” said Brienne sharply before Jaime could respond. “I made my own choice. I never should have lied to you, and I am sorry, but I love him.”

The last three words sounded deafeningly loud in the still, silent yard. She could feel Jaime staring at her, but she did not dare look at him. She had never said the words before, nor had he said them to her. Her heart pounded. _Well, now I have said them, and they are true, whether he says them back or not._

Selwyn broke the silence with a heavy sigh. “Of course you believe that. You are nineteen.” He looked at Jaime again, eyes cold with fury. “What have you done to my daughter, ser? She was a good girl. Sensible. Honourable. And now look at her. Ruined. For what? Your amusement?”

Brienne opened her mouth to object, but before she could, Jaime stepped forward again. Brienne could tell he was angry by the tightness of his jaw, but his voice was level, restrained. “Your daughter is not _ruined_ , my lord. I have acted rashly, I cannot deny that, and I have broken my vows, but I love your daughter as she loves me. If I could, I would marry her this minute.”

Brienne’s breath caught in her throat. For a moment, the gravity of the situation was forgotten, and she felt almost giddy. _He loves me._ She had wondered about it, guessed at it, but had never quite dared to believe it. To hear him say it aloud – to her _father!_ – made her feel like she could float.

But Lord Selwyn was not convinced. He scoffed. “You would marry her, would you? But your vows prevent you – how convenient. Did you give the same flimsy excuse to that poor serving girl?”

Brienne stared at him. “What serving girl? Pia?”

“Do you think I don’t know?” Selwyn was still glaring at Jaime. “I overheard her and Brienne talking one day in her chambers, about a Kingsguard who got her with child. I thought it must be you.”

Jaime looked back at him, a long, hard look. “Aye,” he said at last, in a voice as cold as winter. “I suppose that’s what you would think.”

“I will speak with the king on the morrow,” said Lord Selwyn. “If the gods are good, he’ll strip you of your cloak. Come, Brienne.”

“No!” Brienne blurted.

Selwyn looked at her. “No?”

She thought quickly. “I mean… do not speak with the king. If you speak with the king, everybody will know that I have been dishonoured, and then nobody will ever marry me. Not even Hyle Hunt. Is that your wish?” She looked at him pleadingly.

He frowned, considering her words. She held her breath and waited.

Finally, with what seemed like a good deal of effort, Selwyn snapped, “Very well. I won’t tell him.” He glanced back at Jaime again. “Most like he’ll never strip you of your cloak, anyway, for fear of upsetting Lord Tywin. More’s the pity. He never should have let you on his Kingsguard in the first place.” He turned back to Brienne. “We will leave on the morrow.”

Her heart stopped. “Leave?” she said faintly.

“For Tarth. Do you think I would let you remain here after all this?”

She looked over at Jaime, who looked as stricken as she felt. The beginnings of tears gathered in her eyes. “But—”

“But nothing. Stop this Florian and Jonquil nonsense and come back to the castle to pack.”

“Lord Selwyn,” Jaime said, a note of desperation in his voice. “If I could speak with you properly—”

“We have spoken quite enough, Kingslayer. Come, Brienne.”

He took her arm and began to steer her out of the training yard. There was nothing she could do but steal one last glance at Jaime over her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” he said to her. There was a look on his face she had never seen before, eyes wide and devastated. “I’m so sorry, sweetling.”

She drank him in desperately, her last look at him, until tears blurred her eyes and she could see him no longer.

“Leave?” said King Robert in his solar the next morning. They were sitting in front of him like penitent children, Selwyn still and grave as a statue, Brienne awkward and miserable. He looked from one to the other, puzzled, then gave a hearty laugh. “What’s the matter with you, Selwyn? You’ve scarcely arrived. I thought you meant to stay two moons. A more sensitive king might take offence.”

Selwyn cleared his throat, not quite meeting Robert’s eyes. “I regret to leave, Your Grace, but there are urgent matters on Tarth that require my attention, and…”

“How urgent?” said Robert, waving his goblet. “Have you no castellan, my lord? Stay another sennight, at least. There’s to be another tourney then, for Joffrey’s nameday. Much smaller, of course, just among the knights here – I didn’t think he should have one at all, in truth, especially so soon after the last – but he’s a spoilt little brat and Cersei never denies him anything. It will be an amusement, at least. You might as well stay for it.” It sounded more like a command than an invitation. “I’ve enjoyed your company, Selwyn. It is good to have more Stormlanders around me. A nice antidote to all of these bloody Lannisters.”

Selwyn hesitated, but Robert had not left him much room to refuse. “I – very well, then, Your Grace. You are most generous. Thank you.”

Brienne felt her spirits lift ever so slightly. One more week with Jaime; perhaps there was hope yet. Last night she had been convinced she would never see him again, and her eyes were still sore and puffy from crying.

“Generous,” Robert snorted, pouring more wine into their cups. “I’m bloody bored, that’s what I am.”

No sooner had they left Robert’s solar, however, than her father had given her a long list of new restrictions. She was not to leave her chambers at night. She was not to speak to Jaime at all. And if she found herself unoccupied at any point during the day, she was to return immediately to her chambers so that he would know where she was. She agreed without protest, knowing she had been lucky, though it was hard to feel it when she knew she had lost Jaime.

The sennight dragged by. Without Jaime to meet and spar with, the Red Keep became once again as dull and lonely as it had been when she first arrived. Several times, she considered defying her father’s rules and sneaking out anyway, but she did not dare to risk it. She knew that he was much more watchful now, and had taken to staying up late so that he would hear her if she tried again.

Cersei was watching her too, which worried her far more. More than once, she looked up from her sewing to see Cersei’s cool green eyes on her. Brienne always looked away immediately, but she could still feel the queen’s gaze, steady and unblinking as a lioness.

Two days before Prince Joffrey’s tourney, she accidentally arrived early to the queen’s solar for sewing, and heard Cersei and Osmund talking inside. Heart racing, she lingered in front of the door and listened.

“But if I tell on him, then he’ll tell on me,” Osmund was saying, confused. “He knows about us. And about Pia.”

“He won’t,” said Cersei’s voice with conviction. “He’s too protective of that wretched girl. If he told, he’d get her in trouble too. And as for me…” She gave a dark laugh. “Robert would want me killed. Do you think Jaime would do that? He might be angry with me now, but he is my…” She paused. “My twin. He loves me, he will always love me. He does not wish me dead.”

“If King Robert dismisses him from the Kingsguard, then he’ll inherit Casterly Rock, will he not?” Osmund said. “Is that what you want?”

There was a pause. Brienne moved closer to the door, trembling.

“I want him away from here,” Cersei said at last. There was venom in her voice. “He was useful to me once, but no longer. He is a hindrance to me now. Did you know I asked him to kill that little whore of yours? That little serving girl? But he refused. That girl is a danger to me, and he knows it. If she chose to tell someone about you, then you would be interrogated, and you might end up admitting to… other things.”

A tense pause. Brienne felt sick. _Pia_. 

“I would never,” said Ser Osmund, just a second too late.

Brienne could almost hear Cersei’s syrupy smile. “Oh, I know that, sweet Ser Osmund. You’re my shining knight, the only one I can trust. That’s why I need you to do this for me.” Her voice took on a breathy, pleading quality, a perfect maiden in distress. Brienne could not imagine any knight resisting that voice. “Go to the king, and tell him that my brother has dishonoured the daughter of his great friend the Evenstar. Do it tonight. Please, ser.”

“I will,” said Ser Osmund. He sounded slightly dazed, as though he had been hypnotised. Brienne heard them kiss.

She ran.

Ignoring her father’s rules, and the fact that her absence at sewing would surely look suspicious, Brienne searched the keep for Jaime. Eventually, she found him standing guard outside the king’s chambers, cloaked in white, Ser Boros Blount beside him. She could hear the sounds of women giggling and Robert grunting on the other side of the door.

“Lady Brienne?” Jaime said, cool and formal, but she could see a touch of worry in his eyes. “Can I help you?”

She stared at him helplessly. She could not tell him in front of Ser Boros, though there was not a hint of interest in the other knight’s droopy eyes.

“My… my father would like to speak with you, ser,” she said at last, hoping he would understand. “Whenever you have time.”

Jaime nodded. “Tell your _father_ I will meet him in the armoury in an hour.”

She felt a weight lift from her shoulders. “Thank you, ser.”

He gave her a small, secret smile, the first smile she had had from him in five days. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck, but instead she made herself smile back, a quick half smile that Ser Boros would not notice, and hurried away.

But Jaime did not appear in the armoury. She waited an hour, and then some young knights came in and gave her an odd look, and she had to leave. She checked the training yard, but he was not there either. Feeling sick with dread, she returned reluctantly to her chambers. Pia was there, cleaning, but she had not seen Jaime either.

Brienne remembered Cersei’s threat to Pia, and the knot in her stomach tightened. If Jaime left, there would be nothing to stop Cersei sending Osmund to kill her instead.

“Pia,” she said, trying to keep her tone light, “when I leave – if the queen wills it -- would you like to come back to Tarth with me and work for me there?”

Part of her expected Pia to refuse. She did love King’s Landing, after all, and Tarth would be boring in comparison. But to her surprise, Pia beamed.

“I would _love_ that,” she said. “You’re so nice to work for, and Tarth sounds beautiful. Are there boys there?”

Brienne managed a laugh. “Yes, there are boys there. Not so many as here, but a fair amount.”

“Good-looking boys?”

“Some.”

“That will do,” said Pia, grinning. Then her expression sobered somewhat. “It would be good to get away from Ser Osmund, too. I hate to look at him now.”

“That’s what I thought, too.”

Pia bit her lip. “Do you think the queen would mind?”

Brienne made herself smile. “No,” she said. “I don’t think the queen would mind at all.”

Unexpectedly, Pia hugged her. “Thank you,” she said into Brienne’s shoulder. “Brienne.”

It took Brienne a second to realise what was happening, and to hug her back. Pia felt very small in her arms, but her grip was warm and strong. Suddenly Brienne had to bite back tears.

“Oh, I forgot to say,” said Pia when they had separated and Brienne had composed herself. “About an hour ago, your lord father was summoned to speak with the king.”

The sick feeling returned.

To appease her father, Brienne stayed in her chambers for the rest of the afternoon, and heard nothing. She did not see Jaime at dinner either. When she was halfway through her pudding, however, King Robert leaned over drunkenly from the other side of her father, with whom he had been speaking for most of the meal.

“Lady Brienne,” he said, slurring slightly. “I’m sorry about that whole business with the Kingslayer. Ser Osmund told me all about it. But he won’t bother you again, don’t worry. I’ve got rid of him at last, the arrogant bloody bastard.”

He gave a triumphant, wine-soaked laugh and raised his goblet in a toast to nobody. To the other side of him, Cersei sipped her own wine, expressionless.

Before Brienne could answer – what would she have answered? – he lurched away again and began flirting with a serving girl walking past.

She could feel people’s eyes on her. Her ears burned. Trembling, she excused herself and all but ran back to her chambers.

Pia was hovering outside the door. “Oh, it’s just you,” she said with obvious relief when she saw Brienne.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping watch,” Pia whispered, and looked meaningfully at the door. “He’s in there.”

Brienne almost crashed through the door.

Jaime was sitting on her bed. He was out of armour, a cloak of Lannister crimson around his shoulders, and to her surprise, he was smiling.

“I’m out,” he said. “Did you hear?”

Tears filled her eyes. “Oh, Jaime, I am so sorry.”

“Sorry?” He laughed, and stood, pulling her into his arms. “Sweetling, this is exactly what I wanted.”

“What?”

“I must say, I never thought Cersei would go this far just to spite me, but I have to thank her for it. I’m sure old Robert would have punished me further, but he’s too afraid of falling out with my father, so I’m heir to the Rock again. Father will be thrilled.”

She frowned. “But you’re leaving in disgrace. Everyone thinks that you dishonoured me, that you broke your vows—”

“Technically true.”

“But— oh, Jaime, I _told_ you I didn’t want you to have to leave because of me.”

He kissed her cheek. “My sweet girl, you’ve done me a favour. If you’re concerned about my reputation, then I hate to tell you it’s been stained for quite some time. I will recover.” He smiled, then pulled back slightly to look in her eyes, serious now. “I should tell you that I asked your father for your hand in marriage. I would have asked you first, but I wasn’t expecting things to unravel quite so quickly. He refused.”

Her heart skipped, then sank. The idea of her father rejecting any marriage proposal, but especially one from the heir to Casterly Rock, was unthinkable. “He _refused_?”

“Believe it or not, I don’t think he likes me.”

“I know, but… he would have me marry _Hyle Hunt_ and not you?”

“Did Hyle Hunt ever slay his king?”

“Not that I’m aware, but…”

“I admit I might have made it worse by not correcting him about Pia, but it’s too late for that now.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gave her a sad little smile. “Most fathers would have married you off regardless. Mayhaps you should be glad he’s so protective.”

“Protective? He must be mad.” Suddenly she wanted to cry with frustration at her father’s stubbornness. She had always seen him as a mountain, stoic and immovable. Once, that had meant constancy and strength, something to be admired. Now she saw the other side of it; he was blank as a rock face, uncaring, unfeeling, unyielding. Hardening himself more and more with every tragedy that came, until there was no softness left, not even for his daughter. “Surely he does not think anyone else will have me now?”

“Nobody will know, Robert says,” Jaime said quietly. “He insists your reputation will remain undamaged. That’s a relief, at least.”

For a moment Brienne almost wished that it had been damaged. If it had, then her father would have no choice but to let her marry Jaime.

Just thinking about it made her eyes fill with tears again. They could have been _married_. Jaime, her husband. An impossible dream, and yet she had come so close. The unfairness of it was crushing.

Clearly Jaime was having similar thoughts. He took her hands in his, squeezing them tightly, green eyes burning into hers. “Say the word and we’ll leave for Essos in the night. I mean it. We could marry there and come back when our fathers calm down.”

“My father would not calm down.” Lord Selwyn would never forgive such a betrayal, she knew, and in spite of her anger, she did not have the heart to do it to him. Her throat tightened. “We can’t, Jaime. I’m sorry. There is nothing to be done.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded, her heart cracking quietly in her chest.

He gave a heavy sigh, then kissed her forehead. “Then I am sorry it had to end like this, my love. Just know that there was nothing dishonourable about what we did.”

_My love._ Suddenly she felt warm in spite of everything. She gave him another, more watery smile. “We surprised everybody.”

He nodded, smiling back at her with such fondness it made her heart ache. “You surprised me.”

“You surprised me too. I’ll never be sorry.”

“Neither will I.”

He kissed her again, one long, final, bittersweet kiss. She pressed herself as close to him as she could, desperately trying to memorise everything she felt, knowing she would never feel it again. He pressed one hand tight to her back while the other moved over her, caressing her cheek, her hair, her arm, her back, committing her to memory. She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears.

Finally, reluctantly, he drew back and looked her in the eye.

“Goodbye, Brienne,” he said, and then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, more corny movie dialogue. i'll never be sorry either.
> 
> thank you for reading as always!! if you've stuck with me this far then I love you. next chapter MIGHT be the last one or I might do an epilogue chapter after, I haven't finished it yet so I don't know! <3


	13. (i've had) the time of my life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Joffrey's nameday tourney, and Jaime has a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the final chapter!! I didn't want to drag it out any more so the epilogue I mentioned is at the end :)) Also, I want to apologise in advance for the movie quote in this chapter. It's my corniest one yet but I couldn't not include it. Enjoy xo

The day of Prince Joffrey’s tourney dawned bright and clear. Brienne readied herself without excitement, knowing it would be impossible to watch the jousting all day long without being assailed by memories of Jaime.

“Do you miss him?” Pia asked sympathetically as she braided Brienne’s hair before the looking glass. Brienne could only nod.

“Will you go to watch the jousting, too?” she asked, in an effort to change the subject.

Pia nodded, bright-eyed. “I’ll go down later, for a little while. I so love tourneys. I was sorry I missed the last one.” She finished the braid and surveyed Brienne’s reflection in the glass. “There. You look well, my lady.”

 _Only by my own standards_ , Brienne thought, but then she pushed the thought away and made herself smile. Jaime liked the way she looked, she reminded herself, and maybe Pia did too. “Thank you, Pia."

With her hair braided and her blue gown laced too tightly as always, Brienne was just about to leave her room for the list fields when something made her turn back. She found it lying in her trunk, where she had hidden it beneath her training clothes. A scrap of white fabric.

On an impulse, she tied it around her wrist, shook her sleeve over it, and left.

She had barely taken two steps down the corridor before Podrick Payne came running up to her. “A note for you, m’lady,” he said, breathless.

Heartbeat quickening, she took the piece of parchment from him and unfurled it with shaking fingers. _Meet me in the armoury. J._

She did not know why, and she did not care. She beamed at Pod, giddy with joy. “Thank you,” she said to him, and all but ran to the armoury.

The door was barred when she reached it. “Jaime?” she said, knocking.

He opened the door, took her hand and pulled her in before barring the door again. Just the sight of him made her heart race. He was grinning at her, a boyish, excited grin. _Jaime_. She had not thought she’d ever see him again. She threw herself at him.

The collision hurt slightly – he was wearing full golden armour – but she didn’t mind. He laughed and kissed her, a long, sweet kiss, pressing her close to him with an armoured hand at the small of her back. “Good morrow, my lady,” he said, voice low and full of mischief, when they drew apart. “Are you off to the tourney?”

She shook her head to clear it and rested her hand on his chest. “Yes, I – are _you_?”

“Of course. I missed the last one. And this time I’d rather like to tilt against my lady knight.”

She stared, uncomprehending. “What?”

He grinned at her, eyes sparkling, hair rumpled. So beautiful. “We’re joining the lists,” he told her, as though it were obvious. “You’re a mystery knight. We’re going to tilt in front of everyone, and the whole realm is going to see how good you are.”

Her heart swooped. “Jaime.”

“I’ve arranged it all. Come.” He took her hand, ignoring her stunned protests, and led her over to a suit of armour she had never seen before. It was deep blue in colour, well-made and beautiful. “I had this made for you,” he said. “If I got your measurements right, it should fit you much better than mine did. Put it on.”

She could not think properly. “ _Jaime_.”

“These are for you, too,” he said, handing her a pile of clothes – soft, expensive breeches, a linen tunic, a dark blue jerkin and fine leather boots. “To wear underneath. You could do with some new clothes, anyway. Those awful roughspun breeches you always wear are getting terribly shabby.”

Finally, she found herself capable of words. “Jaime, this is lovely, but are you _mad_?”

“Not in the slightest,” he said matter-of-factly. “We’re going to tilt, you’re going to win, and then you’re going to remove your helm and show the realm who you really are.”

“But my father—”

“And you are _not_ going to worry about what your father thinks,” he said sternly, cupping her face to make her look at him. “Not him, not your old septa, not the court, nobody. Do you hear me?”

Her heart was pounding, but it was impossible to argue with Jaime when he was like this. When he was like this, she imagined he could march up to the sea and order the tide to stop turning, and it would happily obey. People said he was a great commander, and now she could see why.

Besides, she could feel a spark of excitement now alongside the nerves. She could not deny it; she _wanted_ to joust again.

“All right,” she said, and the smile he gave her made her fall in love with him all over again.

When she had changed into the clothes he had brought, he helped her into the new armour, then led her towards the looking glass to see herself. Her breath caught in her throat. The armour fitted her perfectly, hugging the lines of her body in a way that Jaime’s had not. The deep blue of it looked even more stunning now, glinting in the light from the window. For the first time in her life, she looked like a true knight. She turned back to look at Jaime, unable to speak.

“It matches your eyes,” he said simply.

She had to hold back tears.

“Just one more thing,” said Jaime.

“ _More_?”

He led to her to a table, on which there lay a bundle wrapped in crimson velvet. Jaime hesitated a moment before unwrapping it. “This isn’t for the tourney,” he said. “It’s for afterwards. It may be that we won’t see each other again, and I want you to have something to remember me by.”

The lump in her throat grew painful. “You think I would forget you?”

He grinned, but there was a touch of sadness in it. “You have a long life ahead of you, Brienne. You will do great things, I have no doubt. I’m sure your father will make a match for you eventually, and if the gods are good, you’ll love him—”

“Stop.”

“—but as I told you before, I’m a selfish man, and I don’t want you to forget the old, disgraced Kingsguard who taught you to joust. Open it, wench.”

 _I will love only you to the end of my days_ , she thought, but she unwrapped the bundle anyway. What was inside made her breath catch.

It was a sword unlike any she had ever seen before. The blade was not silver, but black with ripples of red, its point and edge impossibly sharp. The pommel was gold and encrusted with rubies, shaped like a lion’s head. When she lifted it, it seemed to weigh nothing at all.

“Jaime, this is…”

“Valyrian steel. I’ve named it Oathkeeper. My father had it made for me, but this is a hero’s sword.” He smiled at her from across the table. “I think it would be better suited to you.”

Tears blurred her eyes. “I may never have a chance to use it outside of the training yard.”

“That doesn’t matter. It’s yours.”

She put the sword back down and embraced him blindly, her armour clanging against his as she threw her arms around him. The kiss he gave her was fierce, but he pulled back far too soon.

“Enough, wench,” he murmured against her lips, his voice rough. “Don’t tempt me. We’ll miss the tourney.”

Armed with shields and lances, they headed to the list fields, where the tourney had already begun. Jaime led her to the same red tent as before. Honour stood outside, tied to a pole, beside Jaime’s white destrier. Brienne patted him happily; she had not seen him since the last tourney. Pod was waiting inside the tent, practically hopping with excitement.

“I can’t wait for everyone to see you,” he told Brienne. “Ser. My lady.”

Brienne could not say she felt the same, but his excitement was touching. She smiled at him.

They were to tilt last, Jaime told her. When she asked him how he had gotten Robert to agree, he only smirked. “I may be in disgrace, but I am still Lord Tywin’s son. Anyway, I’m sure old Robert would just love to see me joust one last time. Barristan, too. I’m sure the old man cried tears of joy when he heard I’d be tilting today.”

She rolled her eyes.

They went out to watch some of the contests, a safe distance from the stands and any prying eyes. Brienne kept her helm on and watched through her visor. Oathkeeper was sheathed at her hip, fully concealed, but every so often she could not help reaching down to touch the hilt, not quite able to believe that it was really hers. Its presence gave her comfort; she might never see him again after this, but Jaime would always be with her as long as she had his sword.

It was indeed a much smaller tourney than the previous one, with all of the competitors coming from within the Red Keep, but it was entertaining nonetheless. Barristan Selmy broke seven lances against the Hound before finally unhorsing him. Osmund Kettleblack, to Brienne’s immense satisfaction, was violently unhorsed by Ser Andar Royce on the third pass. And Hyle Hunt, to her equal satisfaction, was unhorsed on the very first pass by Ser Loras Tyrell. By the look of him as his squire led him off the field, it seemed he would soon have a black eye and a burst lip to match his broken nose.

They were about to return to the tent to prepare for their own tilt when Brienne glanced over at the stands and saw something that made her heart stop. Her father, making his way to his seat, deep in conversation with Pia.

“Jaime,” she said, cold with fear and confusion, but her voice was swallowed by the blare of the trumpet, and he did not hear.

“Come, wench,” he shouted over the noise. “It’s our turn.”

She followed him blindly back to the tent, suddenly overcome with doubt. Was Pia admitting her part in Brienne’s deception? Would she get herself in trouble, too? And what good could possibly come out of revealing herself after this tilt? Her father would be enraged, humiliated –

“Brienne.” They had reached the horses, and Jaime put his hands on her steel-clad shoulders, peering into her visor. “Calm yourself.”

She felt sick. “Jaime, this is a mistake. My father will hate me.”

Through the slit of her visor, she could only see Jaime’s eyes. They were green fire. “So why did he train you, then?” he demanded. “Why did he teach you to fight, only to hide you away and not let anyone see how good you are? Whether he realises it or not, he raised you to be a knight. He should be proud of you. Well, _I’m_ proud of you. _I_ won’t hide you. I taught you to joust, and taught you well, and I want every damn fool in King’s Landing to see you and admire you and know that you’re the woman I love, whether I’m allowed to have you or not. Do you understand?”

Her heart seemed to expand until she felt it would burst. Eyes blurry with tears, she opened her mouth to reply, but before she could find the words the trumpet blared again.

“Ser Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock,” the herald shouted, “and the Blue Knight! Come forth and prove your valour!”

The crowd roared. She looked at Jaime. “The Blue Knight?” she said with a wavering smile that he could not see beneath her helm.

“I thought it suited you," said Jaime. “Well?”

She looked back at him for a long moment, then took a deep breath and mounted Honour. The smile Jaime gave her was like the sun.

“That’s it,” he said. “Nobody puts Brienne in the corner. Come on.”

He mounted his own horse, lowered his visor and rode away.

Brienne rode to the other end of the lists, suddenly feeling strangely calm. Pod gave her a lance, and she held it up, straightening her elbow.

She looked at Jaime at the other end of the field. For a moment she was worried she would not have the heart to knock him off his horse, but then he lowered his visor and she was back in those midnight training sessions once again, rigid with determination, wanting only to win.

The trumpet blared again, and they were off.

She dug her heels into Honour’s sides, holding her lance poker straight as Honour broke into a gallop, her eyes fixed on the golden lion on Jaime’s shield. Honour’s hooves thundered in time with her heart. _Be stubborn_ , she thought. _Watch your opponent. Hold on tight._

Jaime leaned forward.

 _Now_ , she thought, and struck.

Her lance splintered on his shield, but his own lance hit her shield at the exact same time and shattered to pieces. She rocked back, very nearly sliding off Honour’s back, but she gripped the reins hard and pressed her knees hard against his sides. _Hold on_ tight, said Jaime’s voice. She recovered her seat.

They rode again. This time, she dodged Jaime’s lance, moving her shield out of his way at the very last second, and the crowd roared. She managed to hit his own shield, but there was not enough force behind it, and her lance did not break. The crowd groaned as one. _They are on my side_ , Brienne realised, and wanted to laugh behind her helm at the absurdity of it.

The trumpet blared for the third pass. She straightened her elbow again and thought, _I can count the number of men who’ve unhorsed me on one hand._ She urged Honour into a gallop, faster than ever before.

Her blood was singing. She felt calm, focused, determined. She raised her lance and pointed it directly at that painted lion, coming closer and closer and closer. _Be stubborn_. When she was near enough to strike, she put all her strength into it, her lance shattering hard the instant it hit Jaime’s shield. At the same time, she swerved her body to the left, moving her own shield out of Jaime’s reach. Jaime wobbled in his seat, then fell.

Honour galloped to the end of the lists. The crowd was roaring, the smallfolk on their feet, the lords and ladies looking shocked and curious as they applauded, but Brienne was not paying attention to any of them. The trumpet blew again. “A victory for the mystery knight!” the herald cried.

Dizzy, she dismounted and ran to Jaime, still lying on the ground, and knelt beside him. He took his helm off and grinned at her, and she sagged with relief to see him unharmed. He sat up, pulled her own helm off her head, and kissed her.

The commons were screaming, the lords and ladies in a commotion, but Brienne did not hear them. She was smiling against his lips, taken over by giddy joy as he kissed her again and again and again.

A thin, balding man, presumably the steward of the lists, came hurrying over to them, purple in the face. “Ser Jaime!” he shouted. “What is the meaning of this? _This_ is the mystery knight you spoke of? She is a _woman_!”

“A lady,” Jaime corrected him. “Lady Brienne of Tarth. And wasn’t she wonderful? See how the smallfolk scream for her.”

They looked to the commons. The smallfolk were on their feet, clapping and cheering at the top of their lungs.

“They know a true knight when they see one,” said Jaime, grinning at Brienne.

The steward frowned. “I will admit she did _win_ , but it is forbidden for women to enter the lists. I cannot possibly allow her to continue to the final.”

Jaime looked as though he were about to argue, but Brienne did not feel like an argument. She felt as though nothing could upset her now, or ever again – she was floating, untouchable. So happy. “It matters not,” she told the steward. They had made their point, anyway.

A shadow fell over them, and they looked up. It was King Robert, red-faced and furious, accompanied by a scowling Prince Joffrey and a glowering Queen Cersei. Even that sight did not provoke as much fear in Brienne as it should have; there was something warm and light inside her that nothing could extinguish. A new confidence, a certainty, that not even Cersei could take away.

Jaime cleared his throat and stood, pulling her up after him. She made an awkward, armoured curtsey.

"You ruined my tourney, uncle," Joffrey whined.

"I disagree," said Jaime. "If anything, I improved it."

“Are you _mad_ , Kingslayer?” Robert roared. “I stripped you of your cloak because of your… your… improprieties with that girl! And now you dress up her as a knight, enter her in the tourney and kiss her in front of half King’s Landing? Lord Selwyn’s noble daughter! Do you think now you’ve lost your cloak you can do what you want, is that it?”

For once Cersei seemed to agree with her husband. “You have made a mockery of our house, brother,” she spat.

Jaime raised his eyebrows. “A mockery, sweet sister? And how is that? Did you not see how well she tilted? I taught her that in two sennights.”

“I’m sure that’s not all you taught her,” Cersei said viciously, but Robert was not listening. His expression had changed; he was still scowling, but she could tell by the slight lift of his bushy eyebrows that he was impressed in spite of himself. He turned to Brienne.

“Two sennights, girl? You did do very well.”

“That doesn’t—” Cersei began, but before she could finish, Lord Selwyn came striding over.

His face was unreadable, and finally Brienne’s fear came back, her heartbeat quickening once again. _Be stubborn,_ she told herself, trying to hold on to that warm, proud feeling, and to her surprise, it worked. She lifted her chin.

But her father surprised her. “Aye, Your Grace,” he said, looking at Robert. “She did do very well.”

Brienne stared at him, uncomprehending. Where was the rage he had shown in the training yard? Where were the vows to disown her? He looked back at her with those clear blue eyes, so like hers. But there was something different in them now, something she had never seen before. Uncertainty. He cleared his throat, then turned to Jaime.

“Ser Jaime,” he said. “You made my daughter an offer of marriage.”

Brienne heard Cersei’s sharp inhale, but could only look at her father. Jaime put his hand on her arm. Even through the steel, she still felt the comfort of his touch.

“Yes, my lord,” he said, his voice steady. “I did.”

There was a pause, and then Lord Selwyn said, “Does that offer still stand?”

 _What is he doing?_ Brienne hardly dared to breathe.

Jaime’s grip tightened on her arm. “Yes,” he said. “It does.”

Slowly, Selywn nodded. Then he said, “The first time you asked me, I refused you. But since then, I have spoken with… someone who had more knowledge of this situation than I did, and my mind has been changed. It seems I judged you too harshly, ser, and I apologise.”

Brienne had never in her life heard her father apologise. _This must be a dream_ , she thought dazedly, but Jaime’s grip on her arm felt very real; it was the one thing keeping her from floating away.

Her father looked at her. “Brienne, I owe you an apology, too. You are my only child, and I did not – I have not—”

He stopped, mouth opening and closing silently as he tried to find the words. His eyes glimmered with what looked suspiciously like tears. Finally, with a strange crack in his voice, he said, “I am sorry if I’ve ever – made you feel ashamed. You are – you were –” He trailed off again, swallowing hard, then shook his head. “You looked wonderful out there.”

Her eyes filled with tears of her own. She could not name what she felt; it was like the stitching up of some old wound she never knew she had. She gave him a watery smile, perhaps the truest smile she’d ever given him. “Thank you, Father,” she whispered.

He returned her smile with that same uncertainty. _He looks like a child_. She had never seen him like this. It felt very strange, but she loved him for it. He had never seemed so human.

“If you and Ser Jaime still wish to marry,” he said, with a nod to Jaime, “then you have my consent. And my blessing.”

She looked at Jaime, dazed, scarce able to believe it. He grinned at her.

“Well, my lady Brienne? Do you wish it? Will you marry me?”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, tears sliding down her cheeks even as her smile threatened to split her face in half. Robert was saying something to her father, something confused and indignant, and Cersei was storming off with Joffrey, but she did not hear them because Jaime had pulled her close, her blue armour clanking against his gold, and kissed her.

Behind them, the crowd roared just for her.

“I believe I remember you telling me that you liked to dive from cliffs as a child,” said Jaime.

It was almost midnight, and they had slipped out of the feast that was being held in their honour at Casterly Rock to go and stand on the cliffs overlooking the Sunset Sea, its waters glittering in the light of the full moon. Brienne felt the tension drop from her shoulders as she breathed in the salty air.

They had married quickly in King’s Landing, with no witnesses but Lord Selwyn, Pia, Podrick and Tyrion, which was exactly how she’d wanted it. The wedding had been easy; the trial had begun when they’d arrived at the Rock. Even with Lord Tywin (whose disapproval of the marriage was no secret) away on business in the Vale, the feast had not been easy – seven courses, about a hundred Lannisters, her stomach cramped with nerves – but she felt much better now, alone with Jaime and the sea.

“Not in a gown like this,” she answered, laughing.

Jaime gave her that wicked smile. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to unlace you.”

She did not object.

“Are you wearing a shift this time?” he asked, kissing the back of her neck as he went to work on her laces. “Or would you like to begin your reign as Lady of the Rock on a scandalous note?”

She smiled. “I am wearing a shift.”

“Pity.”

He divested her of the dress, then stripped down to his breeches. There were few sights more beautiful than Jaime in the moonlight, she had learned, but Jaime half-naked in the moonlight was evidently one of them. She ogled him shamelessly. He winked at her over his shoulder, then did a perfect swan dive over the edge of the cliff.

It was a steep drop, but she had dived from greater heights on Tarth. She watched him disappear beneath the inky waves, then reappear, tossing his long hair back from his face. He waved up at her, grinning.

Barefoot in her shift, that scrap of white fabric still tied around her wrist, she stepped up to the edge and dove without hesitation. She had always loved cliff diving. For those few short moments as she sailed through the air, everything else ceased to exist -- and then the sea caught her, embraced her, took her home. She crashed beneath the surface and then surged back up, gasping at the cold of the water but happier than she’d been since they arrived at the Rock three days ago.

Jaime swam to the shallows, and she followed him. When they reached a pretty little cove where the water only came up to their necks, he stopped, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her.

This was what she'd needed, she thought, sighing into his mouth. She kissed him back hungrily, cupping his face with both hands, and he reached for her leg beneath the water and hitched it up against his hip, hand caressing her bare thigh. She opened her mouth to deepen the kiss, turning it sloppy but sweet, her tongue sliding against his, a pleasant ache building inside her. She wanted to take it further, wrap both legs around his waist, but when she tried he nipped playfully at her lip and drew away. She made a small, frustrated noise, and he laughed.

“Don’t think that just because we’re married, your lessons are over, wench,” he said with a smirk. “I don’t want your skills going to rust. I brought you here to spar.”

She frowned. “To spar?”

There was a little bundle hidden in a dry corner of the cove, and Jaime splashed over to it and unwrapped it. Two piles of clothes and two Valyrian steel swords.

“Oathkeeper!” she said, blinking. “Did you bring these here earlier?”

“Just before the feast. I thought you might want a respite. I did, too, if truth be told. I’m very fond of my Aunt Genna, but she does love to ask uncomfortable questions.”

He raised the other sword. It looked similar to Oathkeeper, a little shorter and less ornately decorated, but with the same beautiful red and black blade. “Do you like this one? It’s a twin of yours, forged from the same steel. I thought I’d keep it for myself.”

“Twin swords,” she said, smiling. She liked the thought of that.

“That’s right, wench. The other half of yours.”

“Does it have a name?”

He made a face. “Widow’s Wail. Joff named it, but mayhaps I’ll change it.” He raised the blade. “Shall we try them out? Just try not to kill me. We’re not armoured, and they’re bloody sharp.”

She waded out of the water to join him, and took up her own sword. She struck out first, almost tentatively; she had not had a chance to properly swing Oathkeeper yet. The feel of it amazed her – it was almost weightless in her hand, and the blade seemed to sing as it cut through the air. Jaime raised his own blade to meet it, lightning quick, and then they were dancing.

Sparring with Jaime was always exhilarating, but with Valyrian steel it was something else. The lightness of the swords meant they could move much quicker. Their swords kissed, sprang apart, kissed again. He pressed the attack, and she dodged out of his way, slipping almost teasingly from his reach. _Move your feet,_ he had told her, so long ago. How far she had come since then.

She danced back into the water, and it lapped at her bare ankles. She almost slipped on a wet rock and he took the opportunity to slash at her, but she blocked his strike and righted herself just in time. He whistled, impressed.

They went back further into the water, and the dance went on. He got her on the left thigh, tapping it harmlessly with the flat of his blade, and she got him on the elbow. Somehow she gained the advantage, and then she was the one attacking while he tried to keep her blade at bay. She got him on the knee, then the shoulder, and was about to lunge again when Jaime tossed his sword down dramatically into the water.

“I yield,” he said, and grabbed her around the waist. She squealed, overbalanced and fell, crashing down into the water, and he went with her.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” he said when they resurfaced, breathless with laughter. He pulled her close and kissed her, then growled in her ear, “You looked so magnificent just there I couldn’t help myself.” He bit her earlobe gently for emphasis, and she shivered.

She looped her arms around his neck. “I’ll forgive you. Though I thought that duel was far from over.”

Jaime’s hand crept underneath her sodden shift, fingertips brushing her thigh, her hip, tugging her closer. “We’ll come back to it, wench.” His voice was low and full of promise. “We have the rest of our lives to spar.”

 _The rest of our lives_. Suddenly, a future at Casterly Rock did not seem so terrifying. She smiled, leaned in, and kissed him again.

And again, and again, and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finishedddd!
> 
> I just want to say thank you SO much to everyone who's ever read, commented, bookmarked, left kudos, shared/recced this fic on tumblr, enabled my corny use of movie dialogue, cheered me on with my first semi-smut scene, etc etc. I was expecting like 2 people to read this so the support has been so lovely and I appreciate you all so much. An extra special thank you to nossbean on tumblr for all the beta-reading, brilliant advice and cheerleading (and teaching me how to use google docs hahaha). I've never had anyone beta read for me before and it was such a lovely experience, you're an angel <33
> 
> If I get the inspo I might post a few more snippets from this universe on tumblr so if you're interested it's @djeli-beybi! Thanks again to everyone who read this til the end. It's been so fun writing this fic. In fact you could even say I've had...... the time of my life (and I owe it all to you.) (sorry.) 
> 
> Much love xo


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